


crash standing

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [34]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Recovery, SpicyKustard, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26939176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Gaster is gone. Sans, Edge, Red and Papyrus take some well-deserved time to recover.
Relationships: Papyrus/Sans (Undertale), Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: ain't this the life [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/896544
Comments: 182
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> detailed content warnings in endnotes, and also please note that the rating has been bumped up to explicit because, well, porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

Getting Edge home is just as much of a production as getting him out of the shattered ruins of the Lab had been. Sans makes it through a night in Edge’s hospital room, but by the time they’re allowed to leave the hospital, his shirt is soaked through with fear sweat and his bones ache from struggling against his own instincts screaming at him to run. Apparently on the other side of the deepest exhaustion he’s ever felt, there’s an even deeper and more annoying exhaustion yet to be explored. Who knew?

Then again, he’s not the one with a scorched arm and multiple fractures in his spine, so he can suck it up, keep his mouth shut and deal. 

“Sansy?” 

Sans checks back into reality and finds Red standing right in front of him, looking like this is the third or fourth time he’s called Sans’s name. Red’s clutching a little plastic baggie of Edge’s stuff: pills and bandages, Edge’s shirt, info sheets on taking care of his injuries.

Sans offers a weak grin to him and Edge, who's still flat on his back in the bed and looking aggrieved about it. “Hey, yeah. Hi. What’s up?”

“You feelin’ up to a shortcut home?” Red asks. He hitches a thumb at Edge. “He ain’t s’pose to move around too much.”

“I can get out of bed and to the damn wheelchair,” Edge says tightly. “I’m not an invalid.”

Hoo boy. Well, it’s not like Sans really expected Edge to be a good patient. Papyrus sure isn’t.

Red bristles. Before he can open his mouth, Sans sidles between them and rests a hand on Edge’s uninjured arm. “Nobody said you were, edgelord. But, uh.” It’s not hard to look shaky and exhausted by the effort it takes not to run like a coward; all he has to do is stop trying to hide it, and he doesn’t think he was fooling either of them to start with. “Listen, I’m not a huge fan of hospitals, y’know? So if we could blow this bisicle stand sooner than later, I’d really appreciate it.”

There’s no doubt Edge knows Sans is manipulating him. There’s also no doubt he knows that Sans had to fight off a panic attack all fucking night to stay in this hospital until Edge woke up. Just because Sans is manipulating him doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Edge sighs, breath hitching in the middle of the exhale as his spine protests. “Do you truly think the void is safe now that Gaster’s dead?”

Sans wouldn’t exactly call the void safe to begin with, seeing as it involves stepping across a fold in the fabric of the universe, but he says, “Felt pretty okay when I shortcutted us around the Lab. Red, you sure you’re not tapped out after that fight?”

“I'm fine, I had like six hours to get some mojo back when the boss took a nap,” Red says. “Had a snack, got some sleep--”

“A whole fifteen minutes of it,” Sans says.

Red narrows his eyes. “That’s fifteen minutes more than you got, sweetheart. I ain’t saying I got enough juice to power the underground, but I c’n open a door. Especially if you feel up to closing it behind us. That way we each only gotta do half the work.”

Edge says, “And I repeat: not an invalid. Getting a cab won’t kill me.”

Red turns on him, eyelights flaring, and snaps, “Hey, you wanna end up flat on your back a few extra weeks, or you wanna try not playing hero for once in your goddamn life?”

Thankfully, after years in hell, Edge can obviously see right through Red’s temper to the stark terror underneath. They’re a lot of things, Red and Edge, but they’re brothers first and always. Without breaking eye contact, Edge says, “That’s about as likely as you trying to be less of an asshole.”

For a moment, the tension in the room winches so tight it feels like Sans’s ribs will crack again under the pressure. He should try to run interference, maybe, but he’s afraid he’ll make things worse because he’s too fucking fried to be delicate. 

Abruptly, Red barks a laugh and seems to relax a little. “Yeah, maybe so.”

A healer pokes their head in and asks warily, “Uh, everything okay?”

“They’re fine,” Sans says. “Family bonding.”

With an uncertain smile, the healer takes their leave.

“More like family bondage,” Red mutters, and snickers at his own stupid joke. Sans isn’t braced for the surge of fondness that crashes over him, but he almost never is where Red’s concerned.

“All right,” Edge sighs, letting his head drop back against the pillow. “If you feel up to a shortcut, I’ll cooperate. So long as you agree to let me look at your injuries when we get home.”

“Don’t got no injuries,” Red grumbles. Edge arches a brow, because they can both damn well see Red wince every time he moves wrong, and Red rolls his eyes. “Nothin’ worth fussing about, but yeah, fine, whatever gets you off. You oughta check Sansy while you’re at it.”

“I intend to,” Edge says with a grim light in his eyes. They’re both still kinda cranky about that almost-dying thing, apparently. Sans doesn’t point out that technically _he_ didn’t agree to jack shit, because he knows he’s gonna let Edge fuss anyway. “Aim for the couch, not the bed.”

“You’re too fucking tall, boss,” Red says, in a tone that implies this isn't the first time they’ve had this exact same argument when Edge is hurt. “You’re gonna end up right back here when your feet get phased through one of the arms of the couch.”

Edge tries to sit up again, hisses out a breath through clenched teeth, and grudgingly shoves his uninjured hand towards Red. Without even being a dick about it, Red grabs Edge’s hand, slides an arm under his ribs and hauls him upright. It clearly isn’t the first time they’ve done _that_ either, both of them beaten to hell after a fight but trying to give each other a shoulder to lean on. 

(Which raises the question of what use Sans is, a tourist from a softer world who can barely stand to even be in this fucking hospital room, but he stays anyway. Just in case they need him.)

When Edge is upright, he sits there for a moment with his brow resting heavily on Red’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Red lets him. His arm stays wrapped around Edge like Red’s afraid to let him go. Almost too quietly to be heard, Red murmurs, “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Edge says without lifting his head. Sans gets the feeling they’ll be hearing that a lot until Edge is back on his feet. Not that Sans has a lot of room to talk.

“Uh-huh,” Red says. “You want one of them painkillers?”

“Not here,” Edge says. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his skull. “When we’re home.”

Red grunts, letting his opinion on that decision be known, but he leaves it be. “The bed’s a better idea, prob’ly, if the drugs knock you out.”

“Perhaps, but take me to the couch anyway,” Edge says wearily. “It won’t be the first time I’ve slept sitting up.”

That does give Sans one idea for how he can be vaguely useful. Because Alphys is damn good at making tech, his cell still has a charge after texting jokes back and forth with the old lady all night. He didn’t realize what time it was at first, and then he kept texting because trading bad jokes with his punpal was keeping him from freaking out. She didn’t complain, or ask questions, or even mention that it was in the middle of the damn night. She won’t accept an apology, probably, but he might be able to get away with giving her a pie or something. 

Anyway. His mind is wandering. He texts a quick message to Papyrus and Undyne: _shortcutting home w/ Edge in a min, plz get everything off sofa_

A few seconds later, Papyrus replies with a string of affirmative emoji hieroglyphics Sans is too tired to fully decipher. Good enough. He shoves his phone back into his inventory.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Red asks, watching Sans like he thinks he might swoon.

“Yeah, just making sure we don’t have some kind of Cronenburg teleportation accident.” Sans strolls over to the bed where Red is still definitely not hugging his brother even a little. He puts one hand on the curve of Red’s hip, another on Edge’s ankle. 

Red gives a pale version of his usual leer. Edge clearly clocks the position of Sans’s hand (a little bit of casual intimacy that anybody walking by could see) and crooks one brow, intrigued.

Sans clears his throat and looks away. He asks Red, “How ‘bout I get us into the void and you get us out?”

Considering his previous track record, that seems like the best call. It’s the second tear in the void that keeps tripping him up, not the first.

“Works for me,” Red says. “On three?”

“You’re gonna go on two,” Sans says. He looks at Edge. “He’s gonna go on two, right?”

“He always does,” Edge says. “You could set your watch by it.”

“Hey,” Red says, all wounded pride. “I ain’t that predictable. On three. One--”

On ‘one’, the door rips open and they plunge into the void. It embraces them. Sans feels a complicated tangle of nostalgic longing and reflexive panic because this was _his_ place first, somewhere he could go when he needed an exit or even just a stolen hour of peace that passed in seconds in the real world, and now--

Sans watched Gaster die last night. But he thought Gaster had died before, when he fell into the Core, only for him to turn up in the void and drag Sans and Edge to hell. Now isn’t the time to tempt fate. He yanks the second door open and shoves them through.

He took that shortcut a little faster than he maybe ought to, judging by the way his vision gently throbs on the edges as darkness tries to close in. One of these days he’s gonna remember how to do a nice, gentle shortcut instead of hurling himself through them. But everybody made it through intact, if slightly queasy, and Edge didn’t get jarred by impact, so yay team.

“Hello, brother!” Papyrus says. He’s parked his wheelchair beside the kitchen table, and Undyne hovers protectively at his side like she thinks Gaster might explode out of a shadow at any given moment so she can punch him in the face. “Please try not to fall over.”

There’s a hint of strain in Papyrus’s smile, worry and tiredness and barely suppressed pain. There’s also a little white dog on his lap who looks thoroughly pleased with the state of the world. The wave of relief that hits Sans when he sees them both intact is so strong it almost brings tears to his eyes. 

He grins and comes over to Papyrus, patting him on the good shoulder as he tells the dog, “Glad you’re okay, bud.”

The dog squeaks happily, doing a little tapdance of canine delight as he hovers about two centimeters above Papyrus’s legs. Sans scritches both the dog’s pointy little ears. It’s a good thing that Papyrus isn’t the one with cracked ribs because the dog’s tail beats against Papyrus’s chest like a jazz drum.

“Good boy,” Sans tells him. Which seems insufficient, considering, but the dog still looks delighted at this highest of praise. He wags faster, and Sans grins. “Who’s a good boy, huh? Who’s a little freeloading stinkhound?”

“Most definitely him,” Papyrus says, but his fingers fondly knead the ruff of fur between the dog’s shoulders just where he likes it. Sans smells hamburger on the dog’s breath. 

Meanwhile Edge nods stiffly at Undyne. Like he’s not being held mostly upright by Red, Edge says with quiet dignity, “Captain. From what my brother told me, I owe you a great deal.”

“You don’t owe me anything, you dork,” Undyne says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t faster. There was this fucking moldsmol crossing the road in front of the embassy, and--”

“You were quick enough to save my life,” Edge says. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome,” Undyne says, looking uncomfortable. Maybe because she can pick up on how much weight Edge puts behind what would be a platitude from almost everybody else. “How’s the spine?”

“Still hurts like hell, but he ain't gonna admit it,” Red says. “C’n you grab some pillows off his bed?”

Unlike Edge’s ‘thank you’, Undyne doesn’t seem to get that Red trusting her to go into Edge’s bedroom without supervision is a Big Fucking Deal. She declares, “You got it!” with all the intensity of a gundam pilot about to fight for the survival of Mega-Tokyo and sprints towards the bedroom.

When she’s gone, Edge cranes his head to look at Papyrus and asks with just a thread of anxiety in his voice, “Have you seen my cats?”

“Oh, don’t worry, they’re fine!” Papyrus says, flapping his good hand. “They were slightly uneasy about the wheelchair? Especially the littler one? But Undyne gave them some breakfast, and I’m sure they’ll be out soon if--”

The trill of a happy cat is the only warning Edge gets before Doomfanger thunders up the basement stairs, across the room and onto his lap. Edge grunts upon impact. Doomfanger is not exactly petite. 

Red shoves an arm between Edge and Doomfanger like he’s getting ready to just clothesline the cat off his lap. “For fuck’s sake, you stupid cat--”

“Leave him be, he’s fine,” Edge says. His good hand smooths down the rumpled mess of Doomfanger’s fur until it lays sleek against his back. Doomfanger makes a grumbly little noise and Edge’s mouth quirks. “Yes, I know. Only one hand to pet you. It’s terrible.”

“Careful with his spine,” Red warns Doomfanger, who blinks at him and then gazes lovingly up at Edge with big green eyes like he understands every word. Hell, maybe he does.

Undyne stomps back into the room, clutching pillows like they’re gonna try to escape. Doomfanger tenses up much like Red just did, his back briefly arching, and then deliberately sits and tucks his tail over his feet. All the better to watch Undyne with suspicion. When she comes close, Doomfanger hisses.

“I fed you, you traitor!” Undyne says. She hesitates, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, and then shoves the pillows towards Sans. “Uh, you do it. You’ve got wimpy baby hands.”

In other words, she’s afraid she’ll be too rough and hurt Edge worse than he already is. Or that Red’ll bite her fucking arm off if Edge so much as winces. Bold of her to assume Red won’t bite Sans’s arm off if he’s careless, but maybe his chances are marginally better.

Sans gives her a lazy grin and accepts the pillows. They’re fluffy, bigger than his torso, and also in actual pillowcases. Fancy. “Sure. Leave the pillows to the nap expert. He’s gonna need a glass of water or something for pills.”

“He can speak for himself,” Edge says. He cranes his head to look at her, considers the way that she’s practically vibrating with the need to _do_ something, and sighs. “Water would be lovely.”

“Sure thing,” Undyne says. “Y’know, you fetched and carried for me when I sprained my ankle a couple months ago, so don’t get all weird about this, all right?”

“I’m never weird about anything,” Edge says, so deadpan it’d take years of study in the specialized field of Papyrus humor to understand he’s joking.

Undyne sees through him in a second and caws a laugh. “Yeah, right! You’re weird about everything! But that’s okay, so are the rest of us.”

“I’m normal about all things,” Papyrus says. “Abnormally normal, some might say.”

“When we came in here, your dog was making himself stovetop mac and cheese,” Undyne says. She heads into the kitchen, her voice trailing behind her. “He wasn’t even doing it right! The noodles weren’t even a little on fire!”

“He’s not _my_ dog,” Papyrus says. The dog is cradled in his good arm, belly-up, like a very fluffy baby. “I can’t be held responsible for his shenanigans.”

While the two of them launch into an argument about the optimal amount of char on any given pasta, Sans deposits the pillows behind Edge’s back with painstaking care, trying his best to avoid the bandages. Red watches his hands; Sans watches Edge’s expression. By the end of it, Sans is sweating like he’s defusing a bomb, but Edge doesn’t betray even a smidgen of discomfort.

“Okay,” Sans says, giving the pillow a last pat. “Y’wanna give that a try?”

Cautiously, Edge leans against the pillows. His expression flinches when he makes first contact, but it seems like that was mostly in anticipation of a pain that doesn’t come, because he sinks the rest of the way into the nest of pillows and sighs. “That’s perfect. Thank you, Sans.”

Despite everything, praise from Edge gives Sans a warm shiver. He’s too tired for this; it’s too tempting to lean down and steal a kiss while Edge has that soft look in his eyes. Instead he backs up a couple steps and grins crookedly. “No problem, buddy.”

When he turns away, he finds Papyrus has that particular glint in his eye that promises serious ribbing in Sans’s future. Undyne is back from the kitchen with water but doesn’t seem to have noticed a damn thing. Of course, considering that it took her literal years to realize her crush on Alphys was mutual or that RG 01 and RG 02 are stupid in love, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised.

“Got your water,” Undyne says, setting down a huge mug on an endtable that she must've placed beside the couch. There’s a chunk of ice the size of Sans’s fist floating in it. “You want anything else? I can make you some spaghetti before I head out?”

“You’re leaving?” Papyrus asks. 

Undyne shrugs. “We’re still mopping up the mess in the Lab. The dogs found some stuff that, uh…” Her expression darkens. “Well, I guess you guys already know what they found.”

“The horrifying evidence of our childhood guardian’s many crimes?” Papyrus says. 

Undyne grimaces. “Yeah. That.” Her attention slides over to Sans, who’s trying so hard not to exist for this part of the conversation that he’s not even breathing, and the look in her eye softens almost imperceptibly. He's not sure how to deal with Undyne of all people giving him that look, and it makes him wonder how much Papyrus told her. Too much for Sans’s comfort, but, well, this isn’t just about _his_ comfort. “Nothing about you guys. Not yet, anyway. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Great,” Sans says. He’s aiming for neutral but lands squarely in flat territory, like he’s pissed off at her for doing her job. He clears his throat and attempts a grin. “Thanks again for saving our bacon.”

“You saved your own bacon! I didn’t even get to punch anybody,” Undyne says, mournfully. Then it occurs to her that all of them look like hell, and she adds with forced enthusiasm, “But, uh, you guys did awesome too! Good job on not dying!” 

“Well, Sans died a little,” Papyrus says. “But he got better.”

Whoops. Sans wasn’t gonna bring that up until Edge was feeling a little better, but the cat’s out of the bag now. Edge goes wire-tense, turning towards Sans so sharply that his breath hitches in pain that he promptly ignores. His eyelights are bright, burning so hot that Sans can feel it from where he’s standing. Survival instinct tells him to back up a step, but he doesn’t.

Red grins like the bastard he is, all sharp and sour. The look in his eyes doesn’t match it. It’s that same messy tangle of emotion Sans felt from him when his soul was in Red’s hand. Desperate relief. Anger, because how very dare Sans try to save him. Something else, something that’s too new and too tender to touch.

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?” Undyne demands.

“Nothing,” Sans says. Silently, he tries to convey to Edge that he’ll explain later. “I passed out for a second after some… stuff. Freaked everybody out, but it’s fine. I’m fine. Heh. You know, the humans have this saying about sleeping like the dead--”

Edge mercifully cuts him off. He tells Undyne, “I’ll check in with you later to discuss what duties I can do from home.”

“Sure,” Undyne says, dragging out the word to show how dubious she is re: Edge trying to work from home with a fractured spine. “Papyrus, you want me to drop you at home?”

There’s a moment of conflict in Papyrus’s eyes. On the one hand, he doesn’t seem thrilled about the idea of letting Sans out of his sight for longer than an hour or so. (Sans sympathizes.) On the other, the last couple days would be enough to push even Papyrus to his limits. He didn’t sleep in the hospital for the same reasons Sans couldn’t. Poor guy probably just wants a change of clothes, a shower and his own bed to crash in.

Papyrus says, “No, I think I’m staying here for a while, thank you.”

She looks a little relieved not to be leaving Papyrus alone. She starts to automatically give him the friendship noogie, remembers he’s already banged up, and gently punches him on the shoulder before heading for the door.

“You nerds call me if you need anything, you hear me?” she says on the way out. “If I find out you didn’t, I’m bringing over allll my DVD boxsets and we’re gonna sit and watch every fucking one!”

Papyrus gasps like this dire threat has given him the vapors, and she grins with almost as many visible teeth as a skeleton. As soon as the door closes behind her, Papyrus’s _how very dare you_ expression returns to baseline, and he just looks so tired he’s ready to fall the fuck over. They all stare at each other in exhausted silence. Aside from Doomfanger, who’s purring like Red when he takes a couple too many drags off the pipe.

Speaking of Red, he’s the one who breaks the standoff by yanking a bottle of pills out of the plastic hospital baggie and shoving it at Edge. “You said you’d take one when we’re home, so take one.”

“I need to do a few more things while my mind is clear,” Edge says.

“I mean, is your mind really clear if you’re in pain?” Sans asks. All three of them slowly turn their heads to give him a Look, and it occurs to Sans that he may have just scored a new record in the hypocrisy olympics. “Heh. Okay. Uh, how ‘bout if you and Papyrus take the meds, you’ll be setting a good example for me and Red?”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Red mutters.

Sans might be reaching new heights in hypocrisy, but Papyrus makes an epic achievement in the fine art of passive-aggression as he takes out a pill bottle of his own, neatly extracts a pill and dry-swallows it without ever breaking eye contact with Sans. The intent kicks in fast, and the tightly strung tension in Papyrus’s spine and shoulders eases up as his eyelights get just a little fuzzier. Apparently they’ve got Edge and Papyrus on the good shit.

“There,” Papyrus says, putting the pills away. “Surely you are all amazed by my ability to follow the instructions clearly printed on the bottle telling me to take them four times a day.”

“You’ve got mad pill-taking skills,” Sans tells him. “I’m taking notes.”

“You very much aren’t,” Papyrus says. “I do not see any notes being took whatsoever.”

Sans taps his temple. “I got it right here, bro. Whole buncha mental post-it notes.”

Papyrus sighs, sinking back into his wheelchair. “As if you ever read those.”

“Not that this isn’t hilarious, but you look stoned and tired as fuck,” Red says. Papyrus opens his mouth to object, and Red cuts him off. “Don’t give me that shit, dude. If you don’t sleep, he won’t sleep.”

Hard to tell which of them Red is throwing under the bus, Sans or Edge, but Papyrus grimaces. “Well, I suppose I am t--” Papyrus stops. “T-ti--” Another pause. “Tiiii-- oh, I can’t even say it. Please don’t think less of me. It’s been a very trying few days.”

“I ain’t judging you,” Red says. “I’m off the clock. You wanna borrow my room?”

“Cherry, you are my precious brother-friend and I adore you--” Red goes a little pink, his eyes darting to Edge, who is carefully looking elsewhere. “--but I am _not_ sleeping on your filthy and scandalously nude mattress.”

“Wise of you,” Edge says. “There’s always my bed. I changed my sheets before we left for the trip.”

God, the trip. Was it really only a few days ago that they’d been in the space museum? It feels like a lifetime. Sans was a different person back then. A significantly stupider person.

“Thank you, Edgy Me, I accept,” Papyrus says after a moment’s consideration. His sudden grin bears a startling resemblance to Red’s. “Although it seems strange that _I’m_ the one to share your bed first.”

Red barks a laugh, his first genuine one in a while. Edge almost cracks a smile. So, okay, maybe Sans is maybe a little more dramatic about his suffering than he normally would be. Clamping a hand over his eyes, he whines, “Dude, no, why--”

“Do you want an inventory of every time you’ve been deliberately embarrassing?” Papyrus says. “Because that may take a while.”

“Yeah, no, let’s take it as rote.” Sans drops his hand. “You want help getting settled in?”

“Pfft, it’s only two broken limbs! I’ll be fine!” Papyrus says. “Besides, I imagine you three have some things to talk about. Privately. Insert significant brow waggle and a suggestive wink here."

Edge says, “We do have things to discuss, yes. For your own sake, please don’t open any of the drawers on the bedside table.”

“I promise not to snoop in your weird sex things,” Papyrus says. He hits the brake on his wheelchair, executes a neat three point turn, and then pauses in the hallway to point at Sans. “And you! Under no circumstances are you to get stuck in any other liminal dimensions while I nap!”

“I’ll cross it off my to-do list,” Sans says.

“Good,” Papyrus says. “I’m going to leave the door open so as to hear any screams of terror, so try not to get up to any naked shenanigans.”

“Pretty sure we’re all too busted to bust any nuts,” Red says with sadistic cheer.

Sans buries his face in his hands. “Paps, buddy, I love you, please go to bed so he’ll shut up.”

“Yes, brother, I love you too,” Papyrus says, audibly trying not to snicker. “Come along, dog.”

Sans waits until the squeak of wheels and enthusiastic dog are fully down the other end of the hallway before he comes out of his makeshift shame cavern. He finds Edge staring at him, his eyelights keen enough to burn.

“Uh,” Sans says. “Hi. So you wanna take those meds or--”

“What did he mean, you died?” Edge demands. 

So much for dodging the subject. Sans winces. “Well, okay, so there’s a big difference between almost dying and being dead.”

“The fact that your opening gambit is to argue about the exact definition of death is not encouraging, Sans,” Edge says. “What happened?”

“Told you before,” Red says. “He set Gaster’s soul on fire, and it almost took Sans with him ‘cause of the weird parasite shit. And there was a lot less _almost_ to that almost dying than you’re remembering, sweetheart.”

“I was kinda busy at the time,” Sans says.

Red laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, no shit. Lemme break it down for you. For a couple seconds there, you were gone. I couldn’t feel you. I couldn’t--”

Abruptly, Red stops. Averts his eyes. Stares at Doomfanger, or maybe at Edge’s hand frozen on Fang’s back mid-pet.

“You could, though,” Sans says, with all the care of picking his way through a minefield. “‘Cause you did. Look at me, being all not-dead and stuff.”

“What did you do?” Edge asks. 

It's not meant to be an accusation, but Red's a raw nerve right now, and Sans can see him take it that way.

“Same thing you did when you brought me back,” Red says, still staring at the top of Doomfanger’s big furry head. He reaches out and scratches Doomfanger right between the ears with a fingertip, almost delicately. Doomfanger’s eyes cross a little as he tries to look up at Red’s finger. “Grabbed his soul and yelled at him a lot.”

It’s probably for the best that Red is staring fixedly at Fang, because Edge looks at Red and Sans like they’re some kind of miracle. After a moment, Edge continues petting Doomfanger. Quietly, he says, “I didn't yell at you."

"Bullshit," Red says.

"I thought you didn't remember the time you were Fallen," Edge says.

"I don't," Red says irritably. "Law of averages says you were yelling, though. That's like ninety percent of our conversations."

"Perhaps," Edge says, and it’s damned tactful of him not to mention that Red usually starts it. "Still. That was well done, brother. Thank you.”

Red flinches, then gives a dismissive scoff that doesn’t quite land. “Couldn’t just let the dumb fuck die, could I?”

“The dumb fuck appreciates it,” Sans says. “For the record.”

“Yeah, well, the dumb fuck can thank me by staying away from fire for a while,” Red says. “Anyway, I’m gonna go set some traps on the windows and doors. We all gotta sleep.”

“All right,” Edge says, studying him with worry in his eyes. “You do that.”

So Red does that. He walks like he's decades older than he really is, careful not to move anything more than he strictly has to. Must've stiffened up overnight, the poor bastard. Fuck knows Sans has.

Once he’s out of earshot, Edge sighs and lets his head drop back to stare at the ceiling. He says, "Apparently I missed a great deal."

“Yeah,” Sans admits. “Sorry.”

Edge squints at him. “Why are _you_ sorry? I’m the one who failed you."

"Hey, hey, whoa." That sharp angle can't be doing wonders for Edge's neck, so Sans sits down on the floor by the couch. He's not real sure he can get back up, but whatever. "What’re you talking about? You didn't fail anybody, edgelord."

"I promised to protect you."

"And you did." Sans holds up his collared wrist. "You kept him from taking my soul. You kept me safe. Me and Red both."

"This is twice now I've been unconscious when you needed me," Edge says.

"And it's twice now you've almost gotten beaten to death protecting me," Sans says. "How 'bout this? I'm sorry I can't take a hit, edgelord. I’m sorry I dragged you into a fight where you almost died."

Edge narrows his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, that's not--"

"I don't love you because you get hurt for me, dude," Sans says, exasperated. "Or because you'll kill anybody who fucks with me. You've saved my life, but that's got nothing to do with fighting, okay? You're--" 

Sans stops, suddenly aware that Edge is staring at him, wide-eyed. Sans has never seen Edge look so fucking uncertain, and it makes him seem tired and hurt and terribly young.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sans asks.

"You love me?" Edge says, oh-so-softly, like he’s afraid reality itself might implode if it hears that word from his mouth. 

Oh. Shit. 

Yeah, that sure is a thing that came out of Sans's mouth, in retrospect. He didn't even think about it, or overthink about it, or stress or worry or analyze it to death. He just said it. It was terrifyingly easy.

"Well, yeah?" Sans says, fidgeting a little. "Yeah. ‘Course I do.”

Edge couldn’t look more stunned if Sans tried to tear the soul right out of his chest. Which makes sense, because this is probably the first time anyone’s ever told Edge that they love him. 

(Fuck, _now_ Sans is overthinking it. Edge is in a lot of pain and feeling guilty and so this really isn’t the time for this conversation, and Sans can distantly hear Red and Papyrus talking down the hall and they sound too calm for Red to have overheard Sans dropping the l-word, but how many bugs does Red have in this living room, exactly? How bad is Red’s reaction gonna be when he finds out? If Sans could just rewind thirty seconds before he opened his fucking mouth and crammed his foot in it--) 

“Do you mean in the familial sense?” Edge asks warily, derailing Sans’s train of thought.

Understandable that Edge would feel like he has to ask, considering what a dumbass Sans has been about Edge being a version of his brother. But Sans laughs a little helplessly, thinking of the hungry kisses they’d shared in a hotel room bed and the desperate sound he’d made when Edge touched his throat. “No. I’m, uh, kinda done making that mistake where you’re concerned.”

“Oh?” Edge looks a little smug, and it’s just as dangerously attractive on him as it is on Red. For fuck’s sake, they’re all beaten to hell; Sans really shouldn’t get warm under the (metaphorical) collar because Edge is giving him that half-lidded, self-satisfied look. Too bad his pelvis didn't get the memo. “Good to know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sans says. “Smartass. So listen, I know I kinda dropped this on you at a really bad time, so if you wanna pretend I didn’t say it, I totally get--”

“I love you too,” Edge says. It’s abrupt and a little rusty, like he’s trying out a phrase in a new language. “Just so you know.”

For the second time in a day, Sans feels warmth well up in his soul and spread through his marrow to fill every part of him. But instead of pain, it feels like sunlight. Like inhaling sweet smoke from Red’s mouth. Like waking up next to Edge in a hotel bed and hearing that soft, secret purr. He’s alchemized by one perfect moment into something new. 

They can’t go back from this. He should be terrified. 

But he isn’t.

“Oh,” Sans says. He rubs a hand over his mouth to hide his helpless grin. “Uh, thanks?”

“You’re… welcome?” Edge says, brow furrowing. “Is that what people say in this situation? It wasn’t covered in the manual.”

Ha. If Edge is going to do this love thing, he’s damned well going to do it the proper way. Maybe that similarity to Papyrus should dump a bucket of ice water on Sans’s soul, but it just makes him grin even wider.

“Fucked if I know,” Sans says. “I’ve never done this before. Guess we’ll figure it out.”

“I suppose so,” Edge says, and Sans doubts he’s ever looked so pleased to be uncertain in his anal-retentive life. “We’ve done all right so far.”

“More or less,” Sans agrees. 

He glances down the hall where Red and Papyrus are still talking about something or other. Sounds like they’re discussing trap-building techniques, which is doing a handy job of calming Red the fuck down. When Sans meets Edge’s eyes again, he sees Edge is thinking the same thing he is. They share a moment of pure simpatico re: Red’s bullshit, fondness and frustration and worry and… other emotions Sans won’t put a finger on right now.

“Yeah,” Sans sighs, agreeing with something Edge didn’t even say out loud. “Don’t s’pose you know where he hides all his bugs?”

“There aren’t any recording devices in the living room,” Edge says. “Just motion sensors that tell him if anything bigger than a cat is roaming around when we’re not home.”

Sans blinks. “No shit? I would’ve thought--”

“There’s little point to bugging his own home, seeing as he already knows what bullshit he gets up to,” Edge says. He raises a brow. “Considering how often you two fuck on the couch, it never occured to you to ask whether he was recording?”

Well, when Edge puts it that way, it sounds stupid. Sans shrugs a little. “I dunno, I just figured he wouldn’t do anything worse than jerk off to ‘em once in a while? He’s an asshole, but not about shit like that.”

“You trust him a great deal,” Edge says, like ‘trust’ might mean something else entirely. 

(Back in the hospital room, Sans told Red, “I don’t give a fuck who knows you’re mine. I’m not ashamed of you.” But the words felt like so much more than he meant them to, so goddamn much more than either of them could take right then, and so when Red asked what he said, he’d lied. Like a coward.)

Sans offers Edge a crooked grin. “I never said I was smart, edgelord.”

“Then we can be fools together,” Edge says. 

“Oh, good line,” Sans says, amused, and then even _more_ amused when Edge preens a little. “So now that you’ve unpacked your bags for the guilt trip, what do I gotta do for you to take these meds?”

Edge lifts one brow, maybe because that came out way more suggestive than Sans meant it to. Tired as they both are, there’s a teasing light in Edge’s eyes when he says, “That depends. What are you offering?”

Doomfanger is watching him like he’s not too sure about Sans being up in his space. Sans offers Doomfanger his hand to sniff, which he does thoroughly before deigning to rub his cheek against Sans’s fingers and permit chin scritches. Beneath the thick ruff of fur, Fang’s throat is scarred from a lifetime of fighting to survive. But he’s purring like a kitten now, cozy in his seat of honor on Edge’s lap. Sans gets where he's coming from.

(Not that he’s jealous of a cat. Much.)

When Sans glances up at Edge, that pleased and knowing look in Edge’s eyes makes him want to squirm. Which he refuses to do, thanks very much. So he clears his throat and drawls, “I c’n make you a sandwich?”

Edge chuckles, a rough sound that drags along Sans’s spine like a touch. Then Edge lets one foot drop to the floor, making space for Sans to sit on the couch beside him. (Fang gives Edge a dirty look for daring to move and then huffily resettles himself.) Considering that he was in a hospital bed less than an hour ago, Edge has no right to look like king reclining on his throne as he says, gently imperious, “Come here, please. Let me look at you.” 

“Why, is your eyesight going?” Sans says.

“Hilarious,” Edge says. “But I’d like to check that the last of Gaster’s influence is truly out of your system. I doubt you let anyone look.”

“Paps was busy,” Sans says defensively. “And you oughta be resting, not worrying about me.”

Edge looks so thoroughly unsurprised by his bullshit it’d be a little insulting, if Sans didn’t deserve it. Edge says, “I won’t rest easy until I know you’re all right.”

Impressed, Sans says, “Wow, dirty pool.”

“You almost died,” Edge says with dangerous mildness. He took that particular revelation better than Sans expected, considering, but the tightness of his jaw and the look in his eye says he’s not any happier about it than Red is. 

“But I got better,” Sans says, offering him a weak grin. “Like Papyrus said.”

Edge lifts a brow. Judgily.

With a sigh, Sans climbs onto the couch and gingerly sits down in the empty space. Edge doesn’t wince like he’s jostled, thankfully. If he had, Sans might've puked.

“Take off your shirt,” Edge says.

Sans laughs. It hurts a little. “Oh, I didn’t know you wanted to _look_ at me. Why didn’t you just say so?”

“Forgive me, I assumed you were aware of how much I’d like to _look_ at you,” Edge says. “Perhaps I should be more explicit in the future?”

“Might be nice, but I dunno if I could take it,” Sans says lightly, for all he can feel the blush creeping up his throat. One corner of Edge’s mouth ticks up very slightly, although Edge doesn’t say a word, and that blush burns hotter. Sans tries to recover. “Uh, metaphorically take it, not… I’m pretty sure I could...”

When he trails off, realizing he’s way too fucking tired to let himself run off at the mouth right now, Edge just lets him hang for a moment before asking with sadistic sweetness, “Please, tell me more about how much you can take.”

Sans knows when he’s beat. Sheepishly, he says, “Yeah, I’m gonna take my shirt off now.”

Sans peels off his shirt. It’s not much of a striptease; if he does it slow, it’s only so the pain of his cracked ribs doesn’t flare up again. But when he tosses his shirt to the floor, there’s nothing clinical about the look on Edge’s face.

Sans squirms a little. “Dude, you’ve seen it.”

“In front of your brother, while you were unconscious. Hardly a venue to fully appreciate it,” Edge says. He takes his hand off Fang, who grumbles again but settles when Sans cautiously takes over petting duties. “May I touch you? I’ll be careful.”

Edge always is. Sans grins at him. “Fondle to your heart’s content, edgelord.”

Of course, the second Edge lays his hand on Sans’s ribs, any security Sans found in both of them being too tired to get rowdy is just dust in the wind. Oh, Edge is carefully avoiding the cracks, but his long fingers could almost span half of Sans’s ribcage and his thumb is just a breath away from caressing sternum. Sans’s pubic symphysis gives an ambitious twinge at the thought of Edge running an exploratory fingertip over the not-scar. He’s way too exhausted for it to go anywhere, but _fuck_.

“All right?” Edge asks roughly. From the look in his eyes, he’s not asking because he thinks he’s hurting Sans. Probably hard to miss that Sans is burning like a signal fire.

“Heh. Yeah, uh.” Ruefully, Sans grins at him. “Just. Y’know.”

“I know,” Edge agrees, like anything that just came out of Sans’s mouth made any kind of sense. 

Then Sans feels the familiar warmth of Edge’s healing magic. It’s less focused than usual, less intense. Probably the residue of the meds. There’s a brief, uncomfortable prickle of it across the cracks in his ribs, but it doesn’t linger. The heat reaches into him, sinking in, all deep and diffuse. Edge looks distant, a thoughtful line between his brows.

Thoughtful. Not upset. If he saw goop, he’d definitely look upset, right? 

It’s over now. Gaster’s dead. Sans’s HP went up. It has to be over, they paid in blood to stop it, and so Sans will just sit here quietly and let Edge look without--

“So am I okay?” Sans asks.

Startled, Edge refocuses on him. When he sees that Sans is about two seconds from having a fucking panic attack, the look in his eyes immediately softens. He presses his palm flat to Sans’s sternum like he’s trying to ground him, to keep his soul from just flying away. It shouldn’t help, but it does.

Edge says gently, “I can’t find any traces of that fluid. Whatever you did, it worked.”

Sans sways a little in place, like his soul has been blue for years without him noticing and now the crushing weight of gravity has finally eased up. He feels like he really would just float off if Edge didn’t have a hand on him. 

“I’ll keep checking periodically for the next few days to be sure,” Edge continues. “Although your HP going up is a promising sign.”

“Uh-huh,” Sans says.

“He was torturing and feeding on you for years,” Edge says. “It’ll take time for you to fully recover.”

“Sure,” Sans says.

“Some of the damage he’s done may be permanent. Not all of it, but some,” Edge says.

“Makes sense,” Sans says.

“Sans.” The quiet command in Edge’s voice drags Sans back from wherever the hell he’d gone inside his head. He blinks at Edge, who offers him a very small, very real smile. “You’ll be all right. But you need to rest. You’ve been through hell.”

“Well, hey, I’m the expert at resting,” Sans says, trying to scrape up some enthusiasm for doing anything but staring numbly at the inside of his eyelids for a while.

Edge snorts. “You’re worse at it than you let on, but still far better at it than I am.”

“Aw,” Sans says. “I c’n teach you, if you want. Me and Red.”

“Good luck with that,” Red says from unexpectedly close. Apparently while Sans was busy playing Ground Control to Major Tom, Red wandered in and started working on trapping the windows and front door in the living room with simple cat’s cradles of silver wire. Seems like he’s just about done. “I’ve been trying to get him to chill the fuck out for years.”

“By offering handjobs, weed, and the murder of anyone who dares to inconvenience me,” Edge says. “Truly, I cannot imagine how I could still have any stress whatsoever.”

“Sarcasm any harder and you’re gonna break something, boss,” Red says. He plucks one of the wires, experimentally, and looks grudgingly satisfied. Some of his jittery tension finally relaxes. “Oh, sorry, I mean you’re gonna break something that ain’t already broke.”

“Hilarious,” Edge drawls. 

Edge’s hand is still resting on Sans’s bare sternum, hot as a brand, and now that Sans isn’t drifting through space, he’s back to being painfully aware that Edge’s could oh-so-easily stroke some very sensitive places if he was so inclined. He’s way too tired and strung-out to be this horny, but does that stop him? Nope. 

“So,” Sans says, maybe a little less than smoothly from the way they both immediately look at him like hunting dogs who heard a whistle. “You said you were gonna check Red over before you take meds?”

“M’fine,” Red says dismissively. “Some bruises, that’s all. Save your energy for putting your goddamn spine back together.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” Edge says.

There’s a moment where Sans can see two branching paths for how the rest of this conversation goes: one where Red gives in more or less gracefully and one where he gets nasty because that’s how he deals with being scared. Edge can’t exactly _make_ Red do anything right now, at least not without possibly hurting himself in the process. They’re all tired and in pain and feeling raw, and it’d be real easy for things to get ugly.

And then it all derails when Edge says with a hint of genuine desperation, “Please, brother.”

Red flinches like he got shot. He gives his head a little shake, viciously enough that Sans thinks of the fresh crack in his skull and winces in sympathy. Then Red slouches over to the couch, looking surly as fuck. Sans moves out of the way, and Red settles gingerly onto the seat in front of Edge. For all his snap and snarl, he’s trying his hardest not to hurt Edge worse than he already is.

“I’m fine,” Red repeats, quieter. “Had a teeny little crack in my skull, but I let the fishbitch heal it. She said everything’s copacetic.”

“And I’m sure she’s perfectly competent,” Edge says. “Yet you always double-checked our Undyne’s work when it was me injured, so shut up and let me make sure she didn’t miss anything.”

With an extravagant eyeroll, Red offers Edge his wrist. The bruises have only gotten uglier overnight. Edge’s jaw tightens like he’s trying not to grind his teeth, and he takes Red by the arm with painstaking care. There’s a weak glow beneath his fingers as he reaches out with healing magic, almost as weak as Sans’s healing.

“See?” Red says after a moment. “Like I said, I’m fine.”

“He left _marks_ on you,” Edge says, sudden feral rage simmering in the words. Maybe Sans could blame that on the universe that they came from, but that wouldn’t explain why he felt that same fury when he realized there were bruises on Red’s thighs in the shape of Gaster’s fingers. “He tried to--”

“And Sansy made him pay for it,” Red says. The look in his eyes is almost soft. “Gaster suffered plenty, boss. He died slow. I’ll show you if you want.”

It’s a less-than-subtle message: _You can still touch my soul. I’m not afraid of you._

And Edge hears it loud and clear. Tenderly, he strokes his thumb over the bruises on Red’s wrist, like a weird echo of the collar around Sans’s. Which might be the only reason Red doesn’t bite him for it. Edge says, “I think I saw some of it, but I certainly wouldn’t mind watching it again.”

“Like the world’s most morbid home video,” Sans says. “So does he seem okay, edgelord?”

“More or less.” With reluctance, Edge stops healing and lets Red go. “It’s nothing dire. I think there may be a couple hairline fractures in your scapula, but it’s hard to tell with the bruising. If you call Undyne, I’m sure she’d--”

“I’ll live,” Red says.

Edge grimaces. It clearly pains him to see Red hurting and not to be able to just _fix_ it, but he doesn’t have the spare energy to burn. He barely looks like he has the energy to sit up on the couch after checking them both over. He rubs a weary hand over his face. “Put an icepack on it. I’m sorry I can’t--”

“Don’t,” Red says, so sharply that Doomfanger’s ear flicks irritably. After a moment, Red gives the cat an apologetic scratch between the ears. His voice is gruff. “Quit apologizing. You did fine.”

Silence falls. It’s only slightly awkward, and Sans hates to break it, but he’s helpless in the face of an abrupt, jaw-cracking yawn. They both look at him, and he grins sheepishly. “Heh. Sorry. Long night.”

“Only getting longer,” Red says with a pointed look at the pill bottle.

Those are apparently the magic words, or maybe Edge is just out of reasons to pretend he’s not hurting like hell. Edge gives another delicate grimace and then a resigned nod. He lets Sans pry him a pill out of the bottle and takes it without a word of complaint. As the intent hits him, he shudders a little and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. His verdict is, “Ugh.”

“That bad, huh?” Sans says sympathetically.

“It’s fine,” Edge says. He pinches the top of his nasal aperture, his brow creased. The edges (ha) of his words are a little less crisp than usual, gently hazed over. “The intent is… much different than anything made back home. Stronger, I think. Like someone is trying to cram healing and comfort directly into my eyesockets until the inside of my skull runs out of room.”

“Wow,” Sans says. “Poetic.”

Red leans forward to study Edge’s expression. “Hey, look at me?” Edge looks, and Red laughs. “Yeah, you’re stoned as fuck.”

“Fuck off,” Edge tells him, which just makes Red grin wider. Sans wonders if Edge can tell that most of Red’s mockery is sheer relief at seeing that Edge is in less pain. “I have no idea how you do this regularly. It’s terrible.”

“Ain’t so bad if you’re not an anal-retentive control freak,” Red says. 

“I’ve never claimed otherwise,” Edge says. Slowly and carefully, he puts his hand on Doomfanger and starts to pet him. It’s a little clumsier than usual, like Edge is trying to pet Fang with somebody else’s hand. Doomfanger squinches his eyes shut. After a moment, so does Edge. “You should sleep. Both of you.”

It looks like Edge won’t be too far behind them if they do. Red gives a noncommittal grunt and doesn’t move. The angle of his grin is softer than usual as he watches Edge, which Red would totally blame on exhaustion if Sans was dumb enough to draw it to his attention. Good thing Sans isn’t.

“Now you’re speaking my language, edgelord,” Sans says. “The language of sweet-ass naps. You got any more pillows and blankets or whatever? The kid taught me how to make a pillow fort.”

Edge opens his eyes to give Sans a Look, although it seems to take a lot of effort to do so. Red promptly resets his expression to his default shit-eating grin before Edge can catch him having an emotion. Sans’s life may be weird, but at least he can count on Red’s bullshit to be consistent.

“My brother’s mattress is unoccupied. Neither of you are in any condition to sleep on the floor,” Edge says. “I’ll be perfectly fine without supervision.”

“‘Course you will,” Sans agrees, letting the argument roll right over and off him like water off a duck’s back. He looks at Red. “Blankets?”

Edge sighs hard enough to make himself wince, resigned to his fate. Red points at a door in the hallway. Sans goes and discovers a closet full of neatly folded blankets and sheets. There are pillows too, big fluffy ones. More stuff than two people could ever need, especially since Red gives no fucks and just sleeps on a bare mattress. Apparently Edge has a weakness for nice linens. Sans’ll have to remember that.

He grabs as much as he can carry, poking things occasionally to gauge optimal fluffiness, and shuffles back to the couch. Unceremoniously, he drops the whole shebang on the floor and sits down on the comfiest pillow to rearrange things for maximum fluffiness. 

As he works, he studies the two of them. Edge and Red both look like they’re awake by sheer determination alone. Edge’s eyes are barely open and his hand is simply resting on Doomfanger’s back. Red seems to only be upright because he’s leaning against the back of the couch. Grimdark edgy bastards they may be, but right now they look like Frisk and MK struggling to stay awake on the ride home after a day trip to the waterpark. It makes Sans’s soul ache, deep and tender like a bruise.

“Y’want help?” Red asks. The words run together like watercolors, bleeding into each other.

“Nah,” Sans says. “I got a method. You two just sit there and look pretty.”

Edge scoffs. Grinning crookedly, Red slouches further into the couch. “All right, but if I’m your kept boy now, you better treat me right.”

Sans’s soul does something funny in his chest. He fusses unnecessarily with a pillow until it’s at exactly the right angle. “Yep. Only the best. All the nacho corn chips and free ‘dogs you c’n eat.”

Red groans from the bottom of his soul, and it’s such a filthy sound that heat flares in Sans’s pelvis. “Oh, talk dirty to me, sweetheart. Take me, I’m yours.”

“Fuck off,” Sans says. Ignoring Red’s snickering, he glances at Edge, who’s watching them indulgently. “I know nacho corn chips aren’t your thing. I’ll figure something out. Salads? Catnip toys, maybe?”

“Tempting. The cats would certainly approve. I--” Edge stops, turning his head to look down the hallway towards Red’s room. His voice sinks into a soothing, coaxing murmur. “Speak of the devil. I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”

The stray strolls out into the living room bold as brass. She pauses long enough to sniff the bed of pillows (and Sans’s foot) and then cranes her head back to stare at Red. She gives a creaky little meow.

“Sup, Beeps,” Red says.

Abruptly wide awake, Edge demands, “What the fuck did you just call my cat?” 

“Beeps,” Red says. He dangles his fingers for her appraisal, and she amiably swats at him. “‘Cause that’s the sound she makes instead of a meow. I think she’s broken.”

“She isn’t broken,” Edge says defensively. “And she does not beep. She meows.”

The stray makes that sound again. It bears a striking resemblance to somebody honking the most pathetic bicycle horn in the world.

“See?” Red says.

“That’s completely undignified,” Edge says. “A proper cat name strikes fear into the hearts of--”

“What, the vet?” Red asks. “Pretty sure she can do that just fine by herself. Besides, she’s been coming around a couple months now. You had your chance to call her something fancy. You snooze, you lose.”

“I’ve been rather busy, if you hadn’t noticed,” Edge says. “I needed time to narrow it down to the best names possible. Her name is…” A pause like Edge is waiting for a dramatic roll of thunder, which doesn’t come. “Wrathbite.”

Wrathbite hops onto the couch and stands on Edge’s foot, beeping insistently. Sans gets the distinct impression that she’s chewing Edge out for being gone for a few days without her permission. Red snickers.

Edge tells her sternly, “You’re not helping. I give you all the salmon jerky you can eat, and this is how you repay me?”

She gives Edge a slow, unimpressed blink, and then clamors onto his lap. Since Doomfanger was already in said lap, this involves sitting on top of him. Doomfanger looks at her like she’s some kind of tiny cat deity and starts cleaning her head, which she indulgently allows.

Red turns to Sans. “Hey, Sansy, what d’you think we oughta call her? Break the tie.”

“The dog’s lived with us for six years and we still call him the dog,” Sans says. “You can call her whatever you want, it’s probably all weird mouth noises to her. Uh, no offense, edgelord.”

“None taken,” Edge says. He leans against the couch, looking like he’s ready to doze off again. Apparently the jolt of energy he got at Red calling his cat something undignified has already burnt itself out. “You’re entitled to your wrong opinion.”

Sans grins at him. “Good thing, ‘cause I’m wrong all the goddamn time.”

“You got that right,” Red says. He prods Sans with the toe of his boot. “You still nesting down there? Not that I ever mind seeing you on your knees, ‘specially in front of the boss, but I’m tired as fuck.”

Red’s trying to get a rise out of him, which just makes it more aggravating when it works. Sans drags a weary hand over his (hot) face, knowing they can both see him blush, and says, “Fuck you, you can get your own pillow fort now.”

“I thought forts were supposed to have walls,” Red says skeptically. “This ain’t gonna stand up to a siege.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sans says. “There are trebuchets under the pillows.”

Edge huffs a laugh. When Sans glances up at him, he finds Edge’s eyes closed again. He looks like he’s more than halfway asleep already. Good. He needs the rest.

“Oh, in _that_ case,” Red says. He starts to bend down to untie his boots and stops short, hissing a breath through his teeth as his shoulders protest. His head probably isn’t real happy about it either. Red glowers at his boot like it betrayed him.

Without missing a beat, Sans starts untying his boots for him. Red lets him, although he looks like he’s not sure he ought to. There’s burnt goop and ash caked on the leather, and it puffs up in a cloud when Sans tosses the boots aside.

For a moment, Red doesn’t move off the couch. He looks at Sans like he’s trying to figure something out. Sans has the sudden, wild urge to nuzzle the bruise he can see just peeking out from under the hem of Red’s shorts. He doesn’t. He’s not sure he could stop himself from peeling Red out of his clothes and doing the same thing to every single mark Gaster left behind. Later, maybe, but not now.

“You coming or what?” Sans asks.

“Yeah,” Red says, unexpectedly quiet. He sort of oozes bonelessly off the couch and onto the floor beside Sans, shamelessly invading Sans’s space like it belongs to him. “C'mere.”

Eventually, they end up with Red on his side with his back against the couch and his head resting on Sans’s shoulder, which lets him watch the door. Getting there involved a lot of wincing and muttered curses, but Sans is comfortable, more or less. He keeps his hand low on Red’s back, as careful of Red’s bruised shoulders as Red is careful not to touch his cracked ribs. Red gives a bone-weary sigh.

“You good?” Sans asks.

Red growls, “Shut up. M’sleeping.”

Sans snorts. “Okay.”

Outside, it’s morning, and the living room is still pretty well-lit. Which is fine, because Sans could probably sleep with a floodlight glaring in his face at this point. His intention is to wait until he’s sure Edge and Red are asleep and won’t need him, but his good intentions have never meant much. He’s out the second he closes his eyes.

***

At first, Sans isn’t sure what woke him. He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep. Time is sticky and fluid as taffy, clinging to his fingers. It could have been five minutes or five days.

He’s so exhausted the floor seems to be gently moving beneath him, swaying like a boat as it moves over the water. It’s a warning sign he’s familiar with from grad school. If he doesn’t get some fucking rest, he’ll be no good to anyone, especially himself, and he's easy prey for any colds or sniffles going around.

Of course, he doesn’t have a parasite feeding on him anymore, which changes things. He’s sure not unhappy about it, but it’s also unnerving as fuck for his own body to suddenly be uncharted territory.

At the moment, it doesn't really matter. All that matters is whatever instinct woke him from a dead sleep, demanding that he pay attention. He listens to Edge and Red breathing. Edge’s is deeper, rhythmic, calm; if he’s not asleep, he’s close enough to make no never mind. Red’s breathing (familiar from months of sharing the afterglow) sounds more shallow than normal. Almost like--

Oh. Now Sans recognizes how Red is breathing, the careful little sips of breath, the tremor of Red’s ribs against Sans’s arm as he struggles with himself. Sans has had his share of silent breakdowns when the crisis is over and the full weight of everything he buried deep to get shit done finally hits him. He remembers coming back from Edge’s world, choking back tears that broke loose the second Papyrus was kind to him.

Something must twig Red to Sans being awake, because Red stiffens. Then he starts to pull away. Before he goes too far, Sans catches hold of Red's shirt in his fingers. Not tight, not even close. Red can break free if he wants. It'd only take a gentle tug. It'd be easy.

Red stays there for a long, long moment, trembling on the edge of something. Lashing out, maybe, or screaming, or just running the fuck away. Red’s not breathing. Sans doesn’t open his eyes to look at him. That'd set him off for sure. He just waits.

Slowly, Red folds. When he's horizontal again, he buries his face against Sans’s shoulder. Sans lets go of his shirt, gently smoothing the wrinkles down. Red's not going anywhere. Sans has him.

Red’s breakdown isn't dramatic or messy, and it doesn’t last long. Sans wouldn’t know what was going on if he couldn't feel the wetness of tears soaking into his shirt. Sans doesn’t tell him it’s okay, Edge will be fine, it’s over now, they're safe. He just holds him and breathes for them both.

And then it’s over, quick as one of those summer rain storms on the surface. Afterwards, the screaming tension in Red’s body has gone slack and easy under Sans’s hand. He’s breathing deeper, steadier, right on the verge of sleep, just like Edge was before this started. 

(Sans hopes like hell that Red’s too distracted to notice that Edge isn’t sleeping.)

Sans lets his hand slide off Red’s hip to palm his ass. He gives it a gentle pat and then a thorough grope, and Red snerks wetly. Sans grins at the ceiling, eyes still closed, and waits for Red to settle in. Red would probably deny until his dying day that it'd count as snuggling when he presses up against Sans’s side, casually throwing one leg over Sans’s to keep him still. Odds are good that Sans is gonna wake up to Red grinding sleepily against his hip, whether deliberately or otherwise. He can live with that.

Red crashes into sleep like a brick dropped off the side of a building. It's only then that Sans cracks an eye open to look at Edge, who he can feel watching them. 

He's expecting worry, or maybe even low-key jealousy. He'd get that. But Edge looks like Sans felt when he came over right after Edge dealt with Red's LV flare. Not _happy_ , exactly, but glad that Red got what he needed when he needed it, even if Sans couldn't be the one to give it to him.

Sans gives Edge a wink and closes his eyes again. Since he's supposed to be teaching Edge how to take it easy, he might as well get started on the first lesson. Call it Naptime 101. Remedial Snoozing. Relaxation for Dummies.

Content with the universe, Sans goes back to sleep for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: injury recovery, use of prescription pain medication


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes, and please note that the rating got bumped up to explicit because porn

Edge sounds pissed off. That’s all Red needs to know. He’s not even halfway awake before he’s already upright with an attack clutched in his hand. 

He looks around wildly, searching for the threat, and doesn’t find one. No sign of the bunny gang, or the tyrant, or Gaster. Only Edge on the couch with an alarmed expression and a cell phone pressed to his acoustic meatus. Beside him, Sans is sprawled among the pillows, blinking muzzily up at Red, barely awake. 

Edge pulls the phone away from his acoustic meatus, pressing the speaker against his shoulder to muffle it as he says quietly, “Easy, brother. We’re safe.”

No such thing as safe. But there’s safe and then there’s safe-for-right-now. Nothing’s actively trying to kill them. No reason to be on red alert.

Red dismisses the attack and wearily drags a hand over his face, wincing at the twinge of pain from the bruise on his cheekbone that he’d forgotten about. And speaking of things he’s just now remembering, oh yeah, he cried on Sans’s shoulder like a whiny toddler. His face is long dry, but there are probably streaks cut through the grime. So much for being subtle. 

Edge has enough shit on his plate right now, he doesn’t need to add worrying about Red on top of it. And he _is_ worrying. Impatiently, Red waves him off, and Edge slowly puts the phone back to his acoustic meatus.

“No,” Edge says tersely to whatever the person on the line asks. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. I’m sure you have business to get back to, your highness.”

Welp, that explains why Edge sounds pissed off. Bad enough that Asgore had the nerve to turn up in Edge’s hospital room, he’s calling too. Asgore sure likes to pretend to be everybody’s daddy, and not even in the kinky way.

But daddy issues or no, Asgore isn’t stupid enough to miss Edge’s less-than-subtle snub. Red catches the rumble of that deep, deep voice saying some more inane bullshit, and then Edge hangs up with a crisp precision that means a) the drugs have worn off and b) he’s tempted to hurl the phone at a wall. 

“Trouble?” Red asks. 

Even to himself, he sounds rough. Exhausted. He could use another several hours of blissful unconsciousness, but fucked if that’s happening after he got startled out of a dead sleep. His instincts won’t settle for a while yet. Hell, it’s amazing his LV let him sleep at all.

(Yeah, and that had nothing to do with the fact that he’d dozed off with Sans pressed up against him and Edge close enough to touch, so that Red could hear them both breathing. He could open one eye and confirm that they were still there with him. Still alive.) 

(Woulda been even better if Papyrus had slept in the living room, but there’s only room for one tall, long-legged bastard on that Sans-sized couch at a time. Red can’t have everything. What else is new?)

“Only the usual,” Edge sighs. Red’s so fried that it takes him a second to remember what they’re even talking about. Oh yeah, trouble, right. “My request to work from home reached the king. He called to tell me I’m not allowed to tax my poor fragile system with paperwork until I’ve been medically cleared.”

Judging by the faint quirk of Sans’s grin, he noticed how carefully Edge avoided saying the word ‘doctor’.

Red can’t exactly blame Assgore for not wanting Edge to handle security when he’s on the good meds, but Edge is gonna be climbing the walls within a day or so. He’s bad at taking it easy. Always has been. It’d been a real bitch to get him to sit still after Grillby damn near scorched through his spine, and even then, Edge snuck off to commit some mild arson the second Red’s back was turned.

Edge has an expectant look, like he’s waiting for Red to be outraged on his behalf. His spine would’ve snapped if Gaster slammed him into the edge of that table one more time, they got so goddamn _lucky_ that it wasn’t worse, and now Edge is pissed because nobody will let him do paperwork. Red could strangle the little bastard.

(Fuck, Red loves him so much.)

Red reaches out and gives Edge’s ankle a condescending pat. (Or at least he’s gonna pretend it’s him being an asshole, not that he’s reassuring himself.) He adds an infuriating grin for good measure. “Aw. Looks like nobody’s gonna let you snap your spine and die like a moron. Tragic.”

“Fuck off,” Edge says, but there’s no real bite to it. He’s distracted, what with looking at Red like he can tell exactly how fucked up Red is underneath the usual bullshit. Red’s life would be so much easier if Edge was as stupid as he acts sometimes. 

It’d probably help if Red didn’t leave one hand resting on Edge’s ankle like somebody might try to take him, but Red couldn’t pry his fingers off with a crowbar. Touching Edge is helping him keep it together, and he needs all the help he can get.

“Ouch,” Red says, putting his other hand over his heart. “Sansy, ain’t you gonna tell him to be nice to me?”

“He is being nice,” Sans says. His expression is still soft on the edges like he’s struggling to wake up all the way. “I’d have smothered you in your sleep years ago.”

“You had your chance, big shot,” Red says. He nudges Sans’s hip with his knee. “You heard the boss. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep for a while.”

“Nah, I’m up,” Sans says. Sleepily, he rubs one eye. He’s still stretched out on his back among the scattered pillows, vulnerable and warm and a little flushed from sleep, and Red wants to stroke him all over. Apparently Red’s horniness is back from its temporary vacation. “Time izzit?”

“A little after 4 o’clock,” Edge says. Which means they got about six hours of sleep. After that fight, Red could probably use another eight or nine hours before he’s halfway functional, and he’s not the one who almost died. “Did either of you eat last night?”

Sans and Red exchange a look. Yeah, there was vending machine candy, but that’s probably not up to Edge’s standards. Hell, Red isn’t exactly thrilled himself that that was the best thing on offer when they’re both so low on magic, but needs must when the devil drives, and Gaster damn near drove them all into a ditch.

“Ah,” Edge says dryly, reading their expressions like a map to bullshitville. “Nothing of substance, then.”

“Didn’t exactly have anything left in my inventory to offer him, boss,” Red says. Which reminds him, he needs to refill all their inventories sooner than later. Right now they should be okay, he’s got a stash of grab-and-go food hidden in every room just in case, but he’ll rest easier when he knows they’re all fully stocked up. “We still got takeout in the fridge, prob’ly.”

Papyrus speaks up from behind the couch. “As tempted as I am by--”

The only reason Red doesn’t reflexively throw an attack towards the unexpected voice is because it’s Papyrus, and he sounds so much like Edge’s that Red knows bone-deep he’s not a threat. As it is, the jolt of fight-or-flight adrenaline makes Red snarl, “For fuck’s sake, don’t do that!”

“I’m sorry, Cherry,” Papyrus says. If he’s alarmed by the fact that Red could’ve hurt him, he doesn’t show it. He looks so harmless, all sleep-rumpled in his wheelchair, like Red didn’t watch him spike Gaster’s body into the floorboards like a volleyball last night. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I underestimated my stealthy wiles.”

“S’okay,” Red says, struggling to slow his racing soul. He didn’t even hear Papyrus get out of bed, let alone wheel himself down the hall and behind the couch. He can’t afford to make mistakes like this. “Oughta put a fucking bell on you.”

“No, thank you,” Papyrus says. “Collars don’t suit my overall aesthetic.”

“Hey, bro,” Sans says, sitting up. “How’d you sleep?”

“Reluctantly!” Papyrus says brightly. 

“So pretty much like usual, then,” Sans says. “Didja take the meds?”

Funny how Papyrus’s gaze veers sideways in the exact same way Sans’s does when he gets busted. Fidgeting with his cast, Papyrus says defensively, “Well, I was going to, but you’re not supposed to take them on an empty stomach!”

“We don’t got a stomach,” Red points out. 

Papyrus narrows his eyes at Red, a look that promises future retribution for this betrayal.

“Yet I imagine the same principle applies,” Edge says, smoothly stepping in to back Papyrus up, probably because he’s trying to keep anyone from asking whether _he_ took his goddamn meds. “Though I doubt any of us are in any condition to cook.”

(Edge doesn’t add that he’d starve before he let Papyrus near his precious stove, but it’s pretty heavily implied.)

“We could order something from Grillby’s!” Papyrus says. 

It’s amazing Sans doesn’t sprain something, the way his head snaps around so he can stare at Papyrus. Warily, Sans says, “Uh, bro, you feeling okay?”

“Of course!” Papyrus says. “I mean, aside from the broken limbs. I thought you liked Grillby’s terrible den of grease and shame?”

“Yeah, but you don’t,” Sans says. “What gives?”

Wounded, Papyrus says, “So now I’m not allowed to generously offer culinary choices you and Cherry might enjoy? Compromise is very important, brother.”

“Uh-huh,” Sans says. He considers Papyrus for another few moments, looking dangerously thoughtful for no real reason Red can divine. Then Sans turns to Edge. “Does that work for you, edgelord?”

“I suppose,” Edge says. “I’ve certainly eaten worse. My brother’s cooking, for instance.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t trade you for a water sausage, you little shit,” Red says. 

Edge gives him the finger. Red gives it back.

“You can get a salad too, Edgy Me,” Papyrus says. He pulls his cellphone out of his inventory. “It’s not raining, so he can bring it right over--”

Just like that, Red’s tension ricochets right through the ceiling. He laughs, sharp and brittle. “Fuck that. I don’t want that asshole within a mile of here.”

Startled, Papyrus says, “Why on earth not?”

“I don’t trust him, that’s why,” Red says.

Papyrus says, “But you go to that terrible bar all the time and eat his culinary crimes. You trust him not to poison you with grease, but not to deliver a burger?”

There’s a big fucking difference between assuming Grillby won’t poison his own customers and trusting Grillby on his front porch when Edge is hurt this bad. But that’s not reasoning Papyrus is gonna easily understand. He didn’t grow up with it. Gaster was a different kind of horror.

“It’s complicated,” Edge says. He rubs the top of his nasal aperture. “We had a somewhat… fraught relationship with the Grillby of our universe.”

“Nice way of saying he tried to kill you,” Red says.

“Well,” Papyrus says. “That’s terrible, and I’m very sorry, but--”

“But?” Red says, biting off the word.

“I c’n pick up the food, Paps,” Sans says. “It’s no big deal.”

“I agree,” Papyrus says, but Red recognizes that stubborn light in his eyes from a fuckton of arguments with Edge. “This deal is on the small side of average. But if me and Edge aren’t the same person, and you and Sans aren’t the same people, then why would Grillby be--”

Just like that, Red runs out of patience. He snaps, “Look, I don’t want him here, so fucking drop it!”

It’s the harshest Red’s been with Papyrus since those first few days, when he still thought jabbing and poking at Papyrus to see what it’d take to make him lose his temper and drop the nicey-nice act was a great idea. No matter what Red said, Papyrus wouldn’t bite, and it wasn’t out of weakness. It wasn’t because Red’s bullshit didn’t hurt. Papyrus just refused to get into it with him. Red didn’t stop out of some sense of mercy; he stopped because Papyrus was freaking him out. 

Sans hisses a breath through his teeth. Out of the corner of Red’s eye, he sees Edge touch Sans’s shoulder in a silent warning that getting involved in this argument would be pouring jet fuel on teeny little trashcan fire. 

Some stupid part of Red expects Papyrus to flinch from his anger, or at least to look hurt as a kicked puppy, but Papyrus doesn’t. He just studies Red for a long moment and then says, “All right, Cherry.”

Red could deal with anger. He could even deal with Papyrus being scared of him, although the thought makes him sick. He doesn’t know how to handle Papyrus looking at him like Red’s hurt real bad and it’s breaking Papyrus’s heart. That quiet compassion takes the knees right out from under him. 

It would be so easy to hurt Papyrus; he’s already hurting as it is from remembering Gaster and almost losing Sans. Red could dig his fingers into those open wounds, and maybe that’d teach Papyrus not to give a shit about him, maybe that’d keep him safe, Red has to _fix_ it before--

Red turns on his heel and walks away. He’s not sure where he’s even going; he just needs to be somewhere else before he flips his shit. His destination is chosen by the fact that he was pointed in the vague direction of the basement steps when he started walking. 

Papyrus calls his name; Edge says, “Leave him be.” If there’s anything after that, it’s lost when Red slams the door behind him. 

He keeps going until he’s gone down the steps and crossed their narrow basement to the far corner where their little washer and dryer are crammed in next to a sanitary tub. That’s as far away from the idiots upstairs as he dares to get. This way he’s not close enough to do any damage, but he can still hear if they scream.

Of course, now that he’s down here, he has no idea what to do next. The entirety of his plan was to get everybody out of the blast radius of his temper. Without anybody’s poking at him, he’s mostly cooled down, and now he just feels fucking stupid. Look at him, freaking out when he’s the only one who came out of that fight mostly intact.

There’s a small window above the washer-dryer, set into the cement foundation to let a little light in because humans get claustrophobic in their own basements. (They oughta try being stuck underground and forgotten for a millennium. See how they like them apples.) Red checks the trap he set on the window when they moved in, not so much because he thinks it’s been fucked with but because it provides a handy excuse for why he needed to hide downstairs for a while. Surprise, surprise, the traps are still good.

But looking at the window, he realizes something: he really wants a goddamn cigarette. Not enough to leave his idiots alone in the house, but enough to buck Edge’s rules re: not smoking inside. Hell, it’s not like Edge is coming downstairs anytime soon. A week or two, probably, if he’s got professional healers helping him out. More than long enough for any proof of Red’s smoking sins to have faded.

More to the point, Red doesn’t really give a fuck right now. Trying not to be an asshole is an uphill battle on the best of days. He isn’t gonna get into a screaming match with Papyrus, but that doesn’t mean he’s in a considerate mood. If Edge doesn’t like it, maybe that’ll teach him to guard his spine better next time.

Red grabs a broom and uses it to slide the window open just a crack, being careful to avoid the wires. The trap wouldn’t go off on him, seeing as he set it to explode outwards instead of in, but it’d be a pain in the ass to have to replace the window and redo the wards from scratch. It’s easy-peasy; a little poke and the window is open enough to smoke out of.

That done, he hauls himself up to sit on top of the dryer, hissing as his bruised shoulders complain loudly. Then he reaches for the little bag he stashed between the washing machine and the wall. He’s got nonperishable food, illicit cat treats, a shitty romance novel and half a pack of cigarettes stashed there. It pays to be prepared.

(If he’d been more prepared, they wouldn’t have run out of food in their inventories. Edge wouldn’t have nearly died.)

Viciously, he shakes his head like he can send the thought skittering out of his acoustic meatuses. No dice; his hand still trembles a little as he withdraws a cigarette and puts it between his teeth. Then he pulls his lighter out of his inventory, flicks it to life, and--

\-- remembers the metal glint of the lighter between Sans’s fingers as he touched the flame to Gaster’s soul, the limp way Sans hit the floor like his body was an empty shell, the terror of trying to call him back and feeling nothing and knowing Sans was slipping through his fingers no matter how tight he held on, he _remembers_ \--

The lighter ricochets off the far wall and skitters across the floor, out of sight. Red can still feel it in his hand, as artificially warm as Sans’s bones had been as he started to burn from the inside. He scrubs his palms on his shorts, shuddering. 

“Y’know, I liked that lighter,” Sans says. 

Red didn’t even hear him come down the steps. He didn’t see Sans sitting on the bottom step, silently watching him freak out. Sans has slipped that far under his guard, and Red can’t even be mad about it. He scoffs. “Yeah, you liked it so much you used it to try to kill yourself.”

“I wasn’t trying to--” Sans must be able to read that Red’s in no kind of mood to have that argument, so he sighs. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. If it ever comes up again, I swear I’ll keep a cheapo lighter on me at all times.”

“You pull that shit again and I’ll kill you myself,” Red says.

Sans cocks his head ever-so-slightly, his gaze assessing. “Fair enough.”

“Besides, you hated that lighter,” Red says. “You bitched about how ugly it was all the time.”

“It grew on me,” Sans says. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“You fucking well better,” Red says. “Anyway, what’d you come down here for? If it’s to chew me out for yelling at your bro, you c’n just head back up those stairs.”

“Nope,” Sans says. “I figured I’d see if there were any fresh digs I could change into. Y’know, ones that don’t reek like the world’s worst barbeque.”

Red tries not to flinch. Doesn’t succeed. His attempt at a leer is probably a little lacking at the moment, but he gives it the old college try. “So you came down here to get naked. It’s my lucky day.”

Sans gets to his feet and only winces a little; he starts to put a hand on his bruised ribs, catches himself, and shoves that hand in his pocket instead. Casual as can be, he strolls over to Red. “You’ve already seen everything I got, dude.”

Red hops off the dryer to bring them eye to eye and (coincidentally) close enough to kiss. He tells Sans, “You say that like I could get tired of looking at it.”

“There’s this crazy invention called a mirror,” Sans says. “You oughta check that out. Try not to jizz yourself to death.”

“Heh.” Red reaches out and drags one fingertip from the base of Sans’s throat, right between his clavicles, down to his sternum. He does it slow. Deliberate. Sans lets him, his breath catching almost inaudibly as Red pets the not-scar through his shirt. That easily, Red can see some of the mantle of casual calm Sans has wrapped himself in starting to unravel. “But a mirror doesn’t purr when I stroke it right, Sansy. Not like you.”

“You can’t seriously be horny,” Sans says.

“Hell yeah, I can,” Red says. He lounges back against the washer, glad it’s not so tall as to press on his bruised shoulders. “Maybe I came down here to jerk off. Y’know, some good old-fashioned tension relief.”

He’s expecting Sans to get all scandalized and outraged at the very idea of orgasms happening in the same house as Papyrus. Instead Sans says thoughtfully, “You think that’ll work?”

“Can’t hurt,” Red says

“Wow, and here I thought you liked it when it hurt,” Sans says. 

Red snorts. “I was trying to respect your delicate sensibilities.”

“Yeah, you’re always all about the sensitivity,” Sans says. 

Sans shows no sign of leaving, so Red ups the ante. Almost delicately, he cups the front of his own pelvis. Even the light pressure of his fingertips makes him shiver. The way Sans watches him touch himself like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen is even better.

"Feeling pretty sensitive right now," Red says, stroking his pubic symphysis with two fingertips through the slick fabric of his shorts. He was just trying to fuck with Sans, make him all squeamish, but jerking off sounds more and more like an awesome idea the longer he rubs his symphysis for Sans’s approval. “You wanna watch?”

It takes Sans a few seconds to tear himself away from staring at Red's pelvis. The hunger in his eyes drags a shudder out of Red, his bones rattling softly. Then Sans surprises the hell out of him by sidling closer, pressing himself against Red's side so he can murmur in Red's acoustic meatus, "That depends. C'n you be quiet for once?"

Red laughs. "Well, anything for you."

The joke falls flat. (Red’s not sure it’s a joke anymore.) The silence hums with all the things Sans could say to that. Good, bad, cruelly indifferent.

"... heh." Sans sounds amused, of all the goddamn things. It'd sting if he didn't immediately rub his cheek against Red's shoulder like an affectionate cat. His hand wanders to Red's waistband and gives it a suggestive tug. “We gotta make this quick. Take these off so I can actually see what you're doing.”

That sounded dangerously close to an order. Red asks, “You gonna be this bossy the whole time?”

There’s a pause. He thinks for a second that Sans is gonna balk, all up in his head about the things he thinks he’s not allowed to want, but finally Sans asks, “You gonna listen?”

“Fuck yes,” Red says, fervently enough to make Sans chuckle. Sans won’t be as rough with him as Edge would be, but he’s mean enough to take the edge off Red’s LV and let him get out of his own skull for a minute. He shucks his shorts down to his ankles and kicks them off. He leaves the boots on. “I’ve been telling you this whole time to ask for what you want. Shirt too?”

“Yeah,” Sans says, so Red strips that off as well. Sans makes a pleased little noise that goes right to Red’s head, making his whole body throb dizzily with want. Red’s way more pent-up than he thought he was. Maybe that shouldn’t be a surprise; nearly dying has always made him desperate. It’s the most potent aphrodisiac he knows.

And if that’s the only way he ever let Edge hold him close, well, it ain’t exactly news that Red’s a lousy brother.

“What kind of junk do you want?” Red asks, knowing odds are good Sans will miss the point and tell him to choose for himself. “Dealer’s choice.”

But Sans doesn’t choose, at least not yet. What he does is reach out and rests his hand on Red’s neck, loosely curling his fingers around Red’s spine. His grip is gentle, so fucking gentle, but he’s undeniably holding Red by the throat. 

“That okay?” Sans asks, and if there’s a thread of uncertainty in his voice, Red can’t feel it in his touch. His hand is steady, like the fire that almost killed him reforged his nerve in steel.

“Fuck,” Red gasps. He melts into Sans’s grip, trying to radiate how into this he is in case Sans can’t tell, because Sans is stupid about this shit sometimes. His head swims like he’s getting choked even though Sans’s grip isn’t tight. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s real good, honey.”

“Okay,” Sans says. One fingertip idly strokes the leather of Red’s collar, making it hum with years of Edge’s intent. Red shivers. “Make a dick.”

Red can do that. He was already hot and bothered, but Sans’s hand around his throat is hammering all his buttons. Making a dick for him is as easy as breathing. Sans hums softly, just like when he ate fancy cake off Red’s fork, like Red is offering him something delicious he means to enjoy.

“Lick your fingers,” Sans says. He’s breathing faster now, excited. “You’re already getting wet, but a little spit can’t hurt.”

Sans’s dirty talk is unpracticed and clumsy, but there’s a raw honesty to it that really does it for Red. Sans doesn’t even seem to realize he’s talking dirty, he’s just talking, telling Red his dick is getting wet the way he’d ask Red to give him the remote.

Red’s too fucking eager to make a proper show of prepping himself. He just wets his hand and brings it to his dick. Before he can touch, Sans says, “Start slow.”

Red closes his eyes, hissing out a breath through his teeth as he struggles for some patience. Then he curls his fingers around his dick. It feels like his hand is just an instrument that Sans is using to touch him, like it’s Sans’s cool fingers making that first exploratory stroke from base to tip. Sans is right, he really is getting wet, eager drops of precome slicking him up and making things easy.

“There,” Sans says, so richly satisfied. He shifts closer, his hips pressing against Red’s femur. “Just like that.”

The hint of praise makes another little pulse of wetness run over Red’s fingers. A soft noise slips through his teeth. He’s been wanting to get his hands on Sans for days, to reclaim him after Gaster nearly took him, but Sans is the one reclaiming Red even though he’s barely touching him.

“Sweetheart,” Red whispers, the sound almost lost over the wet noises of him jerking off. His knees feel weak. He presses his free hand back against the dryer, trying to ground himself as the pleasure builds. He’s barely doing anything, what the fuck. “Can I--”

“Nope. Not yet.” At least Sans sounds like he feels it too, like he’s wrecking himself and Red both. His hips move absently, rocking in time with the slow motion of Red’s hand. “You think you can come like this?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Red groans, which they both know isn’t a no. Sans hushes him, but he sounds more amused/indulgent than worried they’ll be overheard. Red swallows to enjoy the pressure of Sans’s hand around his throat. “Thought you wanted to be quick?”

“Won’t take much,” Sans says. “You’re pretty wound up.”

He’s right. Red can already feel himself getting close from just this; the pleasure is getting sharper as his body struggles with this unbearable slow build. He shifts his weight on his feet, spreading his legs a little wider. His femur nudges between Sans’s, and Sans makes a soft noise. His hips move in a slow, dirty grind as he rubs against Red’s thigh like he can’t help himself, and that time Red does whimper.

“C’mon, starshine,” Sans coaxes, a shiver in his voice like he’s getting off on this as hard as Red is. The mocking nickname has gone all soft and fond, a subtle revenge for Red’s bullshit like an unexpected knife in the back; Red barely chokes back a noise that they could definitely hear upstairs. He shifts his grip so his thumb drags over the wet head of his cock with each stroke, toying with his slit in a way that makes his toes curl in his boots and then letting his hand slide back to the base. Sans groans his approval. “Yeah, there you go. Just a little more and then you can do it how you want.”

Ha. Sans says he isn’t kinky, but here he is holding Red by the throat and making him edge the fuck out of himself. Red’s gonna hold this bullshit over his head forever once he’s done jerking off slow because Sans asked. He knows damn well he’s not gonna last until Sans gives him permission to jerk off properly, they both know it, and he loves it, he loves--

Red comes. It’s so white-hot intense he loses time; he loses everything but Sans’s hand on him and the blissful, painful release that wracks his bones. It leaves him stunned and shaking, stars in his eyes, one hand still on his dick. There’s probably jizz on the floor. If he doesn’t wipe that up, Edge is gonna kill him.

“Hnngh,” Red says, less than coherently. The aftershocks roll through him like the tide, leaving his fingers tingling. Three days of pent-up tension, and Sans cut right through the cord. That beautiful bastard. Next time Red’s gonna make him come so hard he cries.

Sans is holding him, not by the throat now but with one protective arm wrapped around his ribs. It’d be sweet, except Sans is still kind of straddling Red’s leg and rocking against it. Red can’t even manage words to encourage him or to give him shit or both before Sans buries his face in Red’s shoulder, making a little bitten-off noise as he tenses. The increasingly frantic grind of his hips shudders to a stop, his pelvis pressed hard against Red’s femur. Red can feel wet heat blossoming between them, painting his thigh in blue.

“Sansy,” Red breathes, delighted. There’s no liquor as sweet as making Sans lose control, and Red didn’t even have to touch him to do it. “Did you just come?”

“Shut up,” Sans says. He’s still trembling, like his body hasn’t quite gotten the memo that it’s done. “Gimme a second.”

Red shifts his leg a little, the one Sans is pressed against. It’s more of a suggestion of pressure and friction than the real thing, but Sans shudders, his breath huffing out. Red isn’t holding him in place; Sans is the one clinging desperately.

“Sure,” Red says. He doesn’t move an inch; he’s gonna make Sans ask. More fun that way. “I c’n give you a second. Or a third. Goddamn, sweetheart, I can smell how wet you are. You know how much I love fingering you open.” 

(Red doesn’t even stumble over that dangerous little word. He loves Sans’s cunt, his dick, his nimble fingers, his pretty soul, his clever mouth. That’s all right, isn’t it? That’s allowed.)

That earns him another hard shudder, Sans’s hips twitching like it’s taking everything he’s got not to grind off to a more satisfying conclusion. Sans drags in a shaky breath, his fingers flexing on Red’s ribs. Then, with clear reluctance, he backs off. He’s wild-eyed, his face flushed hot, and it burns through most of Red’s yearly stock of willpower not to drag Sans close again. 

Breathlessly, Sans says, “Asshole.”

“Wouldn’t mind fingering that either,” Red says. His fingers are still sticky with his own jizz; he pops them in his mouth and lazily sucks them clean. Sans stares at him, eyelights dilated. Red grins at him. “What’s the matter, baby? Cat got your tongue?”

“Glad to hear your dirty talk is still awful,” Sans says, like his eyes aren’t fixed on Red’s mouth. 

“And you’re so wet it’s dripping down your leg,” Red says. Sans immediately looks down to check, and Red laughs. “Made you look.”

“Fuck off,” Sans says. “Are there other clothes down here?”

Luckily, it turns out that there’s a basket of clean clothes that Edge folded but Red didn’t get around to putting away. Red’ll be sure to point out to the boss the benefits of his lazy-ass approach to laundry. It’s reward enough to lean against the dryer and shamelessly watch as Sans skims his shorts off. Sans managed to get his magic to disperse, mostly, but there’s a nearly opaque haze of it rolling like fog in his pelvis. His pubis is flushed, slick with the same pretty blue that paints the inside of his femurs.

“You’re staring,” Sans says.

“You don’t got much room to talk, seeing as you just watched me jerk off,” Red says. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to hop up on that dryer so I can eat you out?”

There’s no way for Sans to hide the shiver that rolls through him, which is just how Red likes it. Sans doesn’t even bother dignifying Red’s bullshit with a response. He just goes to the sanitary tub beside the washer and wets his ruined shorts so he can clean himself up a little, touching his pelvis gingerly like he’s trying not to work himself up even more, and then tosses the shorts at Red’s chest like the petty bastard he is. Red catches them.

“Nice,” Red says. “I’ll be sure to jerk off with these later.”

“That’s between you and your washing machine,” Sans says. Regrettably, he gets dressed again. When it’s done, he looks like they were fooling around like a pair of horny teenagers, mostly because they were. Sans looks down at himself and winces. “You think I could pack my bags and move out of state?” 

“Well, that’s one way to avoid a walk of shame, but it seems like a lot of work,” Red says. 

“I’m not ashamed of you, asshole,” Sans says.

The words are startlingly fierce, like they were under pressure in Sans’s soul and he couldn’t choke them back anymore. It takes them both off-guard. So does the stupid way Red’s soul squeezes hard in his chest.

Red grabs a fresh shirt and starts pulling it on. His soul suddenly feels too naked. “Yeah, I got that.” 

“Good,” Sans says, like he means to smack anybody who says otherwise. Including Red himself, if necessary.

“Fine,” Red says. He’s not sure what the hell to do with that. Ignoring it seems like the safest option. “Anyway, it’s not like your bro doesn’t already know we’re fucking.”

“Pretty sure there’s a difference between knowing we’re fucking and knowing that we fucked while he was in the living room watching How It’s Made,” Sans sighs. 

“Wouldn’t know,” Red says cheerfully. “I fuck _my_ brother, so it’s not like I care if he knows when I get off.”

That would’ve made Sans flinch once, but he doesn’t even blink. “Yeah, so I hear.”

“You c’n watch, if you wanna,” Red says with a leer, because he’s never met a scab he wouldn’t give a good poke just to see if anything oozes out. Better to know if a wound’s gone rotten before the whole damn leg falls off. 

Sans gives him a level look, like he sees what Red’s doing and he wants Red to know he knows. Then he shrugs. “Maybe when he’s better.”

Ain’t Sans full of surprises tonight. Red scoffs to hide off-balance he suddenly feels. “Well, look at you. What, you needed a near death experience to get that stick yanked out of your ass?”

“Guess so,” Sans says. “Doubt it cured me of being a hypocritical asshole, though. For that, I’m pretty sure I would’ve had to burn all the way through.”

It’s so careless that Red almost believes it. He almost misses what that carefully neutral expression on Sans’s face really means, which is that a) underneath that steady calm Sans is way more shaken up than he’s letting on and b) Sans is gonna stand here and let Red take free shots at him as long as he wants. He knows Red’s not okay and he’s trying to make it better, in his own fucked up way. He still thinks Gaster was his fault.

Meanwhile Red’s been telling Sans for months to ask for what he wants, and now that Sans finally got the nerve to fess up to liking the feel of his hand around Red’s throat, the thought of watching Red and Edge fuck, Red threw it in his face with a bonus jab about Sans almost dying. No matter what universe you’re from, that’s kind of an asshole move.

“Hey,” Red says. It’s not an apology, because Sans would probably get more pissed at him for offering one than for being a dick in the first place. Sans gives him a sidelong look, as coolly aloof as one of Edge’s cats, and Red offers him a grin. “C’mere.”

Sans does, but not as close as Red wants him. Red catches the front of Sans’s shirt but doesn’t pull him closer by it. Gotta be careful of those ribs. Sans is the one to close the gap between them, drawn near like Red’s soul is a magnet. Or Red’s dick, which is probably more realistic, but that’s absent for the moment. Sans has no excuses.

“So you’re not ashamed of me, huh?” Red asks.

“Nope,” Sans says. 

“The boss neither?”

“No,” Sans says, looking like he’s a little offended by the question. 

“That’s sweet,” Red says. “Now how ‘bout you try not being ashamed of you, just for funsies?”

“Eat my entire ass,” Sans tells him pleasantly.

“Anytime,” Red says. He reaches around to grab two generous handfuls of Sans’s ass, kneading gently to show his appreciation. It’s a really nice ass. Edge’s is great too, but there ain’t much give to it. If Red tried to knead it, he’d probably sprain a finger. “Hell, you c’n sit on my face right here, right now.”

“Pass,” Sans says. He presses a quick kiss to Red’s mouth and extricates himself while Red’s distracted trying to slip him the tongue. Tricksy. “Gotta fetch dinner.” 

There’s a noticeable lack of barbs re: Sans needing to play fetch because Red threw a clot over Grillby coming near his house. Turns out that Red doesn’t like the alternative much either. He offers, trying to sound casual, “I could go.”

Not casual enough. Sans gives him a look that’s not unsympathetic and says, “Nah, I got it. Doubt you’re gonna be any happier about leaving us all unsupervised while you get food.”

Well, Red’ll be a damn sight happier if it’s _him_ on his lonesome, not Sans. Rationally, he knows that Gaster is dust and a quick shortcut to Grillby’s is not much different than Sans walking to the vending machine last night, but rationality can’t hold a candle to the memory of trying to hold Sans’s faltering soul together with his bare hands, desperately pouring raw magic into him to keep it beating. Red would have bled himself dry. If Sans died that night, he wasn’t dying alone; he’d have taken Red down with him.

Sans is still looking at him, one brow inching higher as Red doesn’t say anything. Red clears his throat and says roughly, “You assholes can look out for each other for five minutes. I don’t mind.”

“I gotta do this eventually,” Sans says. “I’m not gonna stay in your house forever. We’d drive each other crazy.”

“I know,” Red says. “But you don’t gotta do it right this second, do we?”

Sans considers him, those keen eyelights missing nothing. And then, for once, he shows mercy. “Well, if you’re gonna volunteer to pay for dinner, who the hell am I to say no?”

“Exactly,” Red says. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts to hide their trembling. “Glad you see it my way.”

“For now,” Sans warns.

“For now,” Red agrees. It’s not like he wants Sans stuck on a goddamn leash; that’d only be fun for a night of kinky bullshit, not for keeps. Maybe tomorrow it won’t feel like tempting fate to let any of them out of this house with its traps and wards, but for tonight? He ain’t ready. “You head on upstairs and I’ll fetch the grub.”

Sans grimaces, like it only just occurred to him that he’s gonna be the one to deal with any awkward questions and/or amused side-eye he might get from his bro and Edge. But he doesn’t balk, because he wants Red to feel safe. Red feels all warm and fuzzy for a whole five seconds until Sans tells him flatly, “Wash the jizz off your hands and put some pants on, I don’t wanna hafta find a new bar to eat lunch at.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Red sighs. But he does what Sans asks, which he was going to do anyway, thank you very fucking much, because he’s gross but he’s not that gross. When he’s done, he flicks the stray water on his hands at Sans. “Happy?”

“You’re a constant source of joy and delight,” Sans deadpans, heading up the stairs. “I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life. Try not to shank anyone while you’re gone.”

“I’ll do my best,” Red says, his grin crooked and probably more fond than he means it to be. “Have fun pretending you didn’t hump my leg.”

Sans gives him the finger, then pulls open the cellar door and goes back into the living room. He leaves it standing open so Red can hear the TV droning (cranked up loud enough to cover any noises from the basement) and Papyrus asking cheerfully pointed questions. His idiots are all in the same room, behind locks and traps and wards. A fractured spine won’t stop Edge from protecting what’s his, if it comes to that, and fuck knows Papyrus and Sans aren’t slouches either. It’ll be fine.

Yeah. Just fine.

Whatever. The quicker Red goes, the sooner he’ll be back. He lingers for another few seconds, long enough to hear Sans laugh at something Edge said. Then he tears open a shortcut across town. 

The alley next to Grillby’s is deserted and dark, which is why he aimed for it. The sky is pissing down a cold, miserable rain that immediately reminds Red that he forget his fucking jacket. It’s covered in dust and goop and a fair amount of blood, so he probably shouldn’t have worn it out anyway, but he still misses its comforting bulk. He feels naked without it.

Grumbling, he makes his way to the front door and into the bar. It’s dry there, at least, and a helluva lot warmer than his Grillby’s ever got. Downright cozy. It might even be called welcoming, except for the fact that as soon as Red steps inside, everything suddenly goes real fucking quiet.

Red stops, one hand on the door. He stares at the regular customers. Some of them stare shamelessly back at him, especially the dogi; some avoid eye contact and lean closer to mutter to each other. It’s weird, they don’t _look_ hostile, but the tension in the room makes his bones prickle. 

“Sup,” Red says. He steps inside and lets the door swing shut behind him hard enough to make the front window rattle ominously. Grillby, standing behind the bar with a glass clutched in his hand, doesn’t so much as flicker. “Hey, sparky, you got our order ready or what?”

Grillby holds up one finger and ducks through the fire door. Red huffs impatiently and strolls up to the bar like he doesn’t even notice the weird vibe, leaning against the back of the empty barstool where Sans usually sits.

A minute or so passes. Slowly, the bar comes back to life. Cards are shuffled. Drinks are drunk. Red can still feel a few people staring. When it doesn’t stop, he turns his head to look directly at Punk Hamster and ask, “What the fuck’s your problem?”

Punk Hamster exchanges a look with Red Bird, like both of them are waiting for the other to work up the nerve to answer. Red stays silent and lets them sweat it out, wishing like hell he had a drink.

Finally, Red Bird blurts out, “Are you okay?”

Red was braced for an insult or even (especially) an attack, but not for that. Harshly, he demands, “Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

They give each other another sidelong glance. Punk Hamster gestures awkwardly at the side of Red’s face. “You look, uh, kinda banged up?”

All at once, Red remembers the bandage still on his brow and the bruise across his cheekbone where Gaster hit him. He’s not wearing his jacket, the better to show off the ugly bruises on his wrists and arms. It’d be one thing if he was back home, where bruises are a badge of honor announcing that you survived whatever somebody tried to throw at you, but that’s not normal here. It draws attention.

“I’m fine,” Red says, offering his best unhinged grin. “You oughta see the other guy.”

The fire door swings open, and Grillby comes out laden with takeout boxes. He sets them on the counter, all business: two burgers and fries, two salads. He touches the salad containers with a fingertip, his flames burning hotter as he draws the heat into himself to keep the greens crisp and cool. Then he shoves the whole shebang into a fireproof bag. 

It’s so utterly, bizarrely normal. Grillby looks thoroughly unconcerned by the fact that Red rolled up on his bar looking like five miles of bad road, and that disinterest seems to settle the monsters clustered around them. They start to turn back to their own business.

After a moment of shoving condiments in the bag, Grillby says almost too quietly to be heard, “... Sans and Papyrus all right?”

Red’s tempted to tell him to fuck right off. But Grillby did just take the heat off him, so to speak, and it can’t hurt to stop any rumors that they’re vulnerable to attack before that news can get around.

“Fine as fine can be,” Red lies. 

“... your brother?”

“Peachy,” Red says. “Feeling real chatty today, huh?”

Grillby’s flames pop softly, his version of a noncommittal grunt. He doesn’t ask how Red is. He’s not that stupid. Instead he pushes the bag across the bar towards him. Red reaches for his wallet, and Grillby shakes his head.

This ain’t home, and food offerings don’t mean the same thing. Still, Red bristles. “I don’t need your fucking charity, pal.”

“... not charity,” Grillby says. He tips his head, his own firelight reflecting off his glasses. “... customer loyalty program.”

Red snorts. “What, get a good asskicking and your next burger’s free?”

“... not for you,” Grillby says. “... for Sans. Papyrus.”

There’s something in the way Grillby says ‘Papyrus’ that makes Red squint, staring like he can read answers in those roiling flames. But he can’t, not any more than he could read his own Grillby.

Aggravated, Red snatches the bag off the counter and backs off before Grillby changes his mind. Free food is free food, and he lived out of dumpsters too long to be picky. One free meal offered out of pity isn’t the end of the world, and Red is too tired to fight about it. He just wants to get back to his people, the safety of his house.

“Bye, Red,” someone calls. He thinks it might be Drunk Bunny. He darts a look at her and can’t see anything but sincere friendliness in her gently booze-softened expression. 

He could kill her. She’s too drunk to defend herself, too soft, too stupid to be afraid of him. Back home he would’ve hurt her just to make a statement about what a sadistic, hardass motherfucker he is. It’s what he had to do to keep him and his brother safe, and he can’t pretend he didn’t enjoy it sometimes. And now…

Now he just growls at her, clutches his food tight, and goes home.

Back to his kitchen. He stands there for a moment, gripping the edge of the counter, because apparently his stupid body has _opinions_ now about taking too many shortcuts when he’s this hungry and this tired. Fuck, he’s gotten soft. He breathes until he’s not dizzy, until his ribs don’t feel two sizes too small to contain his wildly hammering soul, until the walls don’t feel like they’re closing in on him, and then he shakes it off and strolls into the living room with the grub.

Sans, Edge and Papyrus are still there. Safe. No blood, no goop, no fire, nobody’s dying. Not that Red thought they would be, not really, but… yeah. He breathes a little easier, that’s all.

Everybody in this living room is intimately familiar with what a shortcut sounds like, so nobody seems really surprised to see him wander out of the kitchen. Sans doesn’t even look away from the TV, just keeps sitting on the floor at Edge’s feet, deliberately within easy petting distance in case Edge can work up the nerve. Edge gives Red a searching look from head to toe like he’s checking for bloodstains, and he seems grudgingly reassured like Red’s intact and (relatively) sane for the moment. 

Papyrus turns his head to look at Red. The fretful anxiety in his eyes makes Red’s soul hurt.

“Hey,” Red says, casual as can be. As he passes Papyrus, he gives his good shoulder a quick and awkward squeeze, a silent _fight’s over, we’re cool._ He doesn’t linger, but he feels Papyrus relax under his grip. With that handled, he plops down on the floor next to Sans and starts passeling out food. “So what’d I miss?”

“Batteries are fascinating,” Papyrus says. “How was Grillby? I mean, Grillby’s.”

“Seemed fine to me,” Red says. He passes one of the burgers to Sans. “He wanted to know how you were doing.”

“Did he?” Papyrus says, perking up. Red gives him a sidelong look, and Papyrus struggles to recover. “I mean, what a friendly thing to do! A friendly neighborhood bartender friend thing!”

“Yeah,” Red says sourly. He gives Edge his salad first, then Papyrus. “Real friendly.”

(So that explains why Papyrus cares so much about whether Red can tolerate Grillby. Just one more potential problem to keep an eye on. He’s not gonna interfere like an asshole, he trusts Papyrus to handle himself, but Grillby? Fuck that guy. If he makes one wrong move, Red has a bucket with his name on it.)

“He’s a warm and fuzzy kind of guy,” Sans says. He shifts closer to Red to steal one of his fries and doesn’t move away afterwards, just stays pressed against Red’s side. “See, it’s funny ‘cause he’s on fire.”

“Wowie, Sans,” Papyrus says. “That never would’ve occurred to me.”

“Good thing I was here, then,” Sans says. He waits until he knows Red’s watching before neatly biting the fry in half. He makes a gratified noise low in his throat as the magic hits him. “Man, that’s good.”

Some of Red’s tension unwinds itself in sheer instinctive satisfaction. With grudging admiration, he offers the manipulative little bastard another fry. Sadly, Sans doesn’t let Red feed him by hand, only plucks the fry from Red’s fingers and pops it in his mouth. Guess there are limits with Papyrus in the room. Considering many of Sans’s rules he’s bent for Red today, Red’s not gonna complain too much. There’ll be other meals.

Sans cranes his head back to look at Edge. “Y’wanna fry, edgelord?”

Edge would normally only eat fried food if he was literally starving, but he barely even winces as he takes the fry Sans offers him. His almost-smile is soft and fond. “Thank you, Sans.”

Red glances at Papyrus and finds him smirking at their two dumbass brothers doing their hilarious little mating dance around each other. Red grins back at him. Now _that’s_ something they can always agree on.

When they’ve all snarfed their food down, they settle in on the couch. Edge and Papyrus take their meds with minimal bitching, sharing a silent grimace of distaste. Then they put on some movie about humans trying to escape a weird cube prison, one that has plenty of traps. Edge is stoned enough that he forgets to pretend to be too cool for an argument over how to engineer superior death traps. There are diagrams involved, hastily scribbled on napkins.

It’s not a quiet discussion, but Sans drapes a blanket over him and Red, leans his head against Edge’s leg, and falls asleep right there as Edge absently strokes the curve of his skull. Red can reach out and curl his fingers around Sans’s collared wrist beneath the cover of the blanket without Sans even stirring; Sans only sighs in his sleep, rubs his unbruised cheek against Edge’s thigh, and lets Red cradle his wrist on his lap. So Red does, stroking the collar with the pad of his thumb as he listens to his brother (both of them) talk about the merits of razor wire. Eventually, lulled by warmth and familiar voices, he closes his eyes.

 _They’re mine,_ he tells the universe. _You can’t have them. Fuck off._

The universe says nothing back. But Red hears Papyrus laugh at something on-screen, a bright and shameless ‘nyeh-heh-heh’. He feels Sans’s wrist safely in his grip, and the tentative brush of Edge’s fingertips across the top of his skull as his brother dares to touch him, reassuring himself and Red both. As far as Red’s concerned, that’s his answer. They’re here. They’re alive. That’s good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Red's in serious hypervigilance mode, having flashbacks to the Gaster fight, and struggling to keep it together, which means he verbally lashes out at Papyrus, Sans and innocent bystanders; reference to fellverse bullshit; Papyrus and Edge use painkillers.
> 
> Sans: I'm not gonna say anything sappy at Red, he can't deal with it right now.  
> (five minutes later)  
> Sans: Here's some sappy bullshit, asshole. Hope you fucking choke on it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

Three days after Gaster’s death, Papyrus rolls into the living room and announces, “I’m going to work.”

If it had been Edge declaring that he wanted to go back to work while two limbs were still in casts, Red would have gone off like a nuke. As it is, Red instantly goes from groggily nursing his third cup of coffee at the breakfast table to wide the fuck awake, his head whipping around to stare at Papyrus in bristling outrage. His reaction would be hilarious if Edge couldn’t see disaster looming.

But before Red can get started, there’s a quiet thump beneath the table, and Red grunts with more annoyance than pain. He narrows his eyes at Sans, who sits across from him at the table wearing the serene grin of someone who just kicked Red under the table to shut him up.

“Sure, bro,” Sans says, turning to look at Papyrus. The motion is too careless for his bruised ribs, it seems, because Edge sees him barely suppress a wince. “If you’re feeling up to it. Didja already clear it with Tori?”

“I did, in fact!” Papyrus says. “She was very enthusiastic about the idea! Or maybe just about getting off the phone and sleeping for another few hours. She really must be your friend, brother, because she’s as fond of naps as you are. Imagine still being in bed at 4 AM on a weekday!”

“The nerve of some people,” says Sans.

“Well, I didn’t mean you,” Papyrus says, belatedly realizing that Sans might take that personally. “If you’re recovering from a soul parasite, you can sleep until at least 6.”

“Sweet,” Sans says. “I’m going back to bed ‘til dinner.”

“Okay,” Red says. His hands are clasped around his mug of coffee, gripping tight like he’s trying to resist the urge to choke someone. “If nobody else is gonna say it, I will. What the fuck? You’re still a goddamn wreck and you wanna just--”

“Sit behind a desk and teach children?” Papyrus says. “You’re right, Cherry, it’s amazing that they don’t have me wearing safety equipment. I should look into that. I’d look rather dashing in a hard hat.”

Sans snorts.

“You’re still in two casts, dude,” Red says, his jaw set at a stubborn angle. “If something happens, you’re in deep shit.”

So many people would have made the mistake of trying to reassure Red that nothing bad was going to happen, offering promises of safety that they had no way of keeping. But Papyrus doesn’t. Instead he says with absolute and unshakable faith, “That’s why I’ll call you if there’s trouble, and you’ll come help.”

Red stops short. For a moment he just _looks_ at Papyrus. It’s the same way he looked at Edge after he found out what happened to Gil, a potent cocktail of frustration and grudging admiration. “Nice emotional manipulation, asshole. I rate it eight out of ten.”

“Hey, that’s at least an eight and a half,” Sans says. He doesn’t object to the part where Red called Papyrus an asshole, although that probably would have had him bristling a few months ago. Perhaps it’s because he can tell that Red means it as a compliment.

Papyrus beams. “Thank you, brother! I appreciate your appreciation!”

Sans gives him fingerguns and a wink.

“Besides,” Papyrus says, “I assume you’d prefer privacy when that healer comes to check on you this morning, Edgy Me.”

The reminder makes Edge grimace. Too late, he attempts to hide it by taking a swig of coffee.

As little as Red will enjoy watching Edge be poked and prodded by a healer, it’ll be worse for Sans and Papyrus. (Especially because the bandages on Edge’s spine and arm need to be removed for the examination and then replaced, which promises to be goddamn agonizing even when done by careful, gentle hands.) Edge himself would rather not be here while that happens, but it’s his body and he unfortunately doesn’t have the option of opting out. But there’s no reason for Sans and Papyrus to suffer through that just because Edge has to. He’d send Red out on an errand too if he thought there was the slightest chance in hell his brother would actually go.

(That lie could rival one of Sans’s. Even if Red _would_ leave, which he won’t, Edge couldn’t bring himself to send Red away. He’s going to be vulnerable and in pain, and only the knowledge that Red will happily tear out the throat of anyone who tries to harm him will make that halfway bearable.)

Sans is watching Edge closely, those pale eyelights damnably perceptive as always. There’s an unspoken question in that look.

Edge answers it aloud. “Those casts are rather unwieldy. It might be easier for Sans to teleport you directly there. If he’s feeling up to it, of course.”

_Go,_ he means. _I don’t want you to watch this._

Red gives Edge a sharp look, which Edge returns without flinching. They can’t keep Sans and Papyrus in the safe confines of their house forever, no matter how badly Red’s protective instincts are acting up. Sans has already taken a few little jaunts into the void, testing the waters to see if anything bites, coming back with only microseconds passing in the outside world. Edge wouldn’t even know if he wasn’t so intimately familiar with the ozone scent of void magic clinging to Sans’s clothes like cigarette smoke.

After a moment, Red breaks eye contact and glowers into the depths of his mug. He doesn’t like it, but he’ll abide.

“Aw, and here I was gonna ask if I could borrow your car, edgelord,” Sans says, as if he’s blissfully unaware of that tense moment that just passed between Edge and his brother. If Sans himself is a little uneasy about the thought of bringing a passenger into the void so soon, it only shows in the tension around his eyes. He looks at Papyrus.

“Your license is suspended,” Papyrus says. “It’s so suspended you’re not even allowed to _look_ at a car.”

That snags Red’s attention. He squints at Sans. “The fuck did you do?”

“Y’know those tickets they put on your car where you park where you’re not supposed to?” Sans says. “Turns out you’re actually supposed to pay those.”

“Huh,” Red says. “I figured they were just suggestions.”

Terrifyingly, neither of them are joking. Just another reminder that being clever doesn’t necessarily mean they have an ounce of common sense to split between them. Edge mentally downgrades Red’s access to his car from _never_ to _absolutely the fuck not_.

“In any case, there will be no operating motor vehicles,” Papyrus says. Looking at Red, his stern expression softens. “I’ll text every two hours to say I’m fine.”

Red considers that, his gaze flicking over Edge and Sans both, before making his counter offer. “Half hour.”

“Hourly,” Papyrus says. “I still have to do my job, Cherry.”

With a sigh, Red impatiently waves him off. “Yeah, fine, whatever. Go teach your fucking anklebiters. And you,” Red points at Sans, “do me a solid and don’t get erased from the timeline again.”

“It’s gonna be hard to resist the temptation, but I’ll do my best,” Sans says.

Sans stands up, moving like his joints are a little rusty. Three days of doing nothing more demanding than sleeping, eating and watching bad movies have done him a great deal of good, but his HP is low even with that hard-earned extra point, and so he heals slowly. 

If Edge wasn’t injured, it’d be a simple matter to just lay hands on Sans and Red and fix their bruises and breaks, but he can’t spare the magic he desperately needs to heal himself. And oh, that stings his pride. 

He’s always been lucky in terms of his HP. He doesn’t get ill as easily as Red, he can take the hits his brother can’t, he doesn’t need as much rest, and he heals infinitely faster. He’s not used to being betrayed by his own body. He never realized how much he took it for granted until he was confined to the couch for three fucking days, unable to work.

Is he bitterly jealous that Papyrus is healing faster? Yes. Is he hiding it well? Probably not, if the sympathetic wince Papyrus gives him is any indication. It’s hardly Papyrus’s fault that Edge let himself get beaten to unconsciousness.

“If you see the human, tell them not to worry,” Edge says. He picks up his cold coffee and takes a swig, tasting nothing. “I’ll be back at work soon enough.”

To Edge’s surprise, Sans pauses mid-step. Then, still moving as if his joints will creak, he comes over to the back of the couch, bends down and presses his mouth to the top of Edge’s head with a very quiet click. It’s such a small gesture, and yet the gentleness of it staggers Edge. 

“Yeah, you will,” Sans says, straightening again with a barely hidden wince. “You’re a tough cookie. Anyway, I might swing by the grocery store after I drop Paps off. You’re out of milk. You want me to pick up anything in particular?”

Edge says nothing; he can’t breathe past the burning coal in his non-existent throat. He’s afraid to even look at Red, waiting for a violent reaction catalyzed by years of struggling to keep them both alive in hell, but nothing comes.

“Mustard,” Red says. He sounds surprisingly unbothered. When Edge dares to glance in his direction, his brother’s expression is as impenetrable as a bank vault.

“Funny, I don’t remember asking you,” Sans says.

Red gives him a shameless smirk, because he knows damned well that a bottle of mustard will mysteriously end up in Sans’s cart no matter what.

"If you two keep flirting, I'm going to be late for work," Papyrus says.

Instead of the usual flustered denials, Sans gives his brother a grin that rivals one of Red’s for sheer malicious glee. Innocently, he says, “Nah, we got plenty of time, bro. Hey, I bet we can even stop at Grillby's for breakfast on the way, since you’re such a big fan of his food all the sudden."

Appalled, Papyrus stares at him. Sans’s grin only widens. Finally, Papyrus narrows his eyes and says with icy dignity, “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t eat salad for breakfast.”

“Fruit salad,” Edge points out. 

Papyrus gives him a truly scathing look. It’s worth it for the genuine delight in Sans’s laugh.

“Et tu, Edgy Me?” Papyrus sighs.

“Et three, even,” Red says. He props his feet up on Sans’s abandoned seat, lounging in his kitchen chair like a throne. “Yogurt parfaits.”

“Smoothies are kinda like a really finely chopped fruit salad,” Sans says. “Y’know, like ketchup.”

“I’m leaving,” Papyrus says flatly. “Goodbye forever.”

“Aw,” Sans says. He strolls over to his brother. “Well, we had a good run. You want me to drop you off at work for old time's sake?”

"I suppose," Papyrus sniffs.

"Text me as soon as you get through the shortcut," Red says abruptly. The humor is gone from his face as he looks at Sans. "The grocery joint too. Okay?"

"Okay," Sans agrees. He waits until that mild non-resistance eases Red’s hackles down before adding, “You wanna put an ankle monitor on me while you're at it?"

Red grins wolfishly. “Hey, sweetheart, if that’s what you’re into...”

Sans must be too tired to do his usual flailing over Papyrus finding out that he has sex with Red, which is blindingly obvious to everyone in their immediate vicinity. Instead, he only winces a little. “Yeesh. Anyway, call me if you need me, edgelord.”

“I’ll call you when it’s done,” Edge says, not ungently. “But thank you.”

Thankfully, Sans accepts that with nothing more than a rueful grin; he knows his presence would only make things worse. With a lazy middle-fingered salute for Red, Sans puts a hand on Papyrus's shoulder, and they're both gone.

In their sudden absence, the living room seems agonizingly quiet. It occurs to Edge that he was so worried about Red’s protective instincts that he forgot to account for his own until they started screaming at him like alarm claxons. He drags in a hard, shaky breath.

(Stupid. Edge should have thought of another reason for Sans’s absence. He shouldn’t have sent the two of them into the void, no matter how many exploratory trips Sans has taken since Gaster’s death. If anything happens to them, if Gaster isn’t gone, Edge is so fucking _useless_ like this.)

Red pulls out his phone and sets it on the kitchen table. His eyes are fixed on the screen. Edge can almost hear him counting in his head, slow and deliberate, the way he would before setting off an improvised bomb: one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five…

“I’m giving it thirty seconds,” Red says. His fingertips drum restlessly on the table. “Then I’m going to check on ‘em.”

And Red is clearly having to fight not to just launch himself into the void right now. Edge nods stiffly, hating that he can’t demand to come along. If something is wrong, he’s damned well getting off this couch to track Sans down even if it cripples or kills him, but he can trust Red to run recon. 

“We’re being ridiculous,” Edge feels obligated to point out.

“Yep,” Red says, viciously popping the ‘p’ like he has a grudge against it. “This whole fucking universe is ridiculous. Tends to rub off on you.”

Perhaps it’s the lingering effects of the pain medication that makes Edge say, “That’s what she said.”

Red laughs like it’s been shocked out of him, a harsh bark of sound. Thus distracted, neither of them flinch when Red’s cell phone buzzes loudly. Red pokes at it, and the killing tension in his shoulders eases a little. Just a little.

“They’re fine?” Edge asks.

“They’re fine.” With a carelessness that makes Edge’s teeth itch, Red tosses the cellphone back onto the table. “Don’t think anybody but Sansy would send me exactly three middle finger emojis to say hello.”

“Probably not,” Edge says. “He shares your unfortunate sense of humor.”

“At least we got a sense of humor,” Red says.

But there’s no real anger in the jab, only a kind of bone-deep weariness dulling the edge of Red’s snark. The last several days have worn on him. The look in his eyes is too reminiscent of the last days that Edge was the one in the collar, when Red was on the verge of collapsing under the weight he refused to let anyone help him carry. It’s not nearly as dire as it was back then, thankfully, but worrying all the same. 

“Brother,” Edge says, not entirely sure how he’s going to navigate the razor wire trap of telling Red he needs to rest. Actual rest, not endless pacing punctuated by a few patchy hours of sleep where Red is ready to jerk awake at the slightest disturbance to protect what’s theirs. Edge is injured, but he’s not so fucking helpless he can’t keep watch. “I think--”

This time it’s Edge’s phone that buzzes, and he does flinch in surprise. It jars his spine, which hurts like hell. He hisses out a slow breath through his teeth, then retrieves his phone. Not an easy prospect, with his dominant hand still bandaged, but he manages. To his credit, Red doesn’t offer to help. 

“It’s that woman from the hospital, Ana,” Edge says. “She wants to know if now is a good time for a visit. I have no idea what other pressing business she thinks I could possibly have. It’s not like I’m allowed to work.”

“Dunno,” Red says. He’s slouched back in his chair like only inertia is keeping him from sliding to the floor. “Sleeping? I hear some people do that.”

Edge gives him a sour look. “Speaking of sleeping--”

Red cuts him off. “You want me to text her back?”

“I can handle typing with one hand, for fuck’s sake,” Edge says, far more sharply than he means to.

Normally snapping at his brother rapidly escalates into a shitshow, but Red only shrugs. He gets to his feet, wincing a little. “Never said you couldn’t.”

With that, he starts shuffling to the front door to consider the intricate wards, silver strings charged with intent until they hum like electric wires. Easy to remove from this side of the door, nearly impossible to disable from the outside. Edge could untangle that magic, intimately familiar as he is with how his brother’s devious mind works, but no one else would stand a chance.

Painstakingly, Edge props the phone on his femur and types a response. He wouldn’t think that ‘I’m available’ would be particularly hard to type, but he keeps misspelling the second word and his pride won’t let him send a text with typos. When he finally succeeds, it feels like he ran a fucking marathon.

Of course Red waits until Edge is finished before he points out, “So didja forget your phone has voice-to-text?”

Yes. On account of Edge having two working hands until a few days ago, he very much did forget about that. He narrows his eyes at Red. “Are you going to open that ward or not?”

“Not ‘til she gets here,” Red says. He leans closer to peer out the peephole, unconcerned about the sheer amount of power running through those harmless little strings. “Don’t want anybody else coming in.”

Edge considers asking who exactly Red expects to storm their door in this quiet little neighborhood, but he keeps his mouth shut. It stays shut and Red stays right by the peephole the whole five minutes it takes before Edge hears a car pull up in front of their house. Even if Edge didn’t hear it, it’d be hard to miss the way Red goes wire tense.

But to Red’s credit, Edge doesn’t have to prompt him to take the ward down. As soon as Edge hears Ana’s car door slam, Red pulls out a sharpened bone attack and cuts neatly through the silver cord. Hours of work dissolve without so much as a whisper.

Without turning his head, Red tells Edge, “If she does something you don’t like, just say the word and I’ll get rid of her.”

There’s little doubt in Edge’s mind that Red doesn’t mean he’ll simply show Ana the door. He probably shouldn’t be touched by Red offering to murder someone who’s been harmless thus far, especially considering what a hassle clean-up would be, but he never claimed to be sane. He says, “That won’t be necessary.”

“Suit yourself,” Red says. 

He pulls the door open, and Ana is standing on the other side, her fist raised to knock. She blinks, nonplussed, and then gives Red a bright smile. “Well, good morning, hon! Eager to get started, huh?”

“Eager to get this over with,” Red grumbles. 

But he steps out of her way rather than making her awkwardly inch her way around him, which is more of a warm welcome than he’d give if the hospital had sent someone they didn’t know. Edge wonders if Ana drew the short straw or if she volunteered. The latter, he thinks. Despite the condescending pet names, she seems to have a backbone of pure steel.

The dog, curled up in a pet bed Edge doesn’t remember owning, raises his head long enough to greet Ana with a squeaky bark and then settles back into a smug little cinnamon bun. There’s no sign of the cats, who have the sense to scatter when someone unfamiliar comes into their territory. No doubt they’ll emerge later from the basement or the bedrooms, sullen and needing to be plied with treats and scritches.

“Well, aren’t you just precious,” Ana coos at the dog. His tail swishes, and then he tucks it over his pointy little nose and resumes his best imitation of a snow poof with ears. Only once the dog has been greeted does she look at Edge. “Hi, darlin’, how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Edge says, which is perhaps a trifle more terse than she deserves. She is here to help him, after all. He clears his throat and attempts small talk. It’s as awkward as it usually is. He’s painfully aware that he hasn’t showered in days. He smells like stale sweat and acrid smoke. “And you?”

“Oh, glad to be out and about,” Ana says breezily. She comes to the couch and pulls a small leather bag out of her inventory. Up close, he sees that her scrubs are decorated with chubby unicorns being ridden by equally chubby kittens. She looks over her shoulder at Red and seems untroubled by him lurking behind her like five feet of protective murderous intent. “Can you be a dear and get me a chair?”

Red just stares at her, stunned by the audacity of anybody thinking he’s interested in being a dear. Then he glances at Edge, mutters something under his breath, and gets her a chair.

“Thank you,” she says, with a disarming sweetness that reminds him of Papyrus manipulating his way through awkward social situations. She sits down in front of Edge and starts unpacking her bag, pulling out sterile bandages. Her expression is all business when she meets his eyes again. She tells him, “Now I’m gonna warn you, this is probably gonna be awful. If you need to stop for a minute, you tell me, all right? There’s no shame in it.”

“All right,” Edge says neutrally.

One corner of her mouth quirks wryly. She can clearly tell he’s not going to ask her to stop, but she doesn’t push. “Okay. You ready to get started?”

Is this how Sans feels every time Edge heals him? It’s a vulnerable feeling, being at the mercy of someone who could hurt him very badly if she chose. He meets Red’s eyes over her shoulder, relying on his judgment, and Red gives him a subtle nod. Red’s not happy about this, but if he thought she was likely to hurt Edge, she’d be dead already.

“I’m ready,” Edge says.

It turns out that it’s for the best that he sent Sans away.

Ironically, his spine is the easy part; it’s the slow process of coaxing the moistened bandages away from his burns that has him breathing through his gritted teeth, the fingers of his good hand digging viciously into the couch cushion to keep from lashing out.

To her credit, Ana doesn’t fuss or flinch, even when Red growls at her like a dog about to strike. She just gets her job done as quickly and carefully as possible, keeping the friendly chit-chat to a minimum aside from checking in a few times to see if he needs a break. 

(He doesn’t. The sooner this is over, the sooner she can be gone. It’s a struggle to maintain his composure, but he can’t let himself show weakness in front of a stranger. He can barely manage to show weakness in front of his own family.)

Pain makes time slippery. It could be fifteen minutes or an hour before Ana sits back and says, “All right, honey, I think we’re done. You’re healing up like a dang boss monster, but it’s probably gonna be a couple more days ‘til you’ve got two good arms again. Maybe a week or two ‘til your spine is fixed up. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Why?” Edge says tightly. “You’re not the one who did it.”

Ana studies him. Too late, it occurs to Edge that he has no idea how much the hospital was told about why he was injured. There’s been nothing in the nightly MTT news about the damage to the Lab or any details about Gaster himself. Yet again, Asgore has managed to shove the darkest parts of this universe out of sight where it can’t bother anyone.

“Well, no, I guess not,” Ana says thoughtfully. She peels out of her latex gloves, somehow managing not to pull out any of the fur on her hands. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. Be back in a couple days to see how you’re doing, and if you need anything, you text me. Understand?”

“Yes,” Edge says. He manages not to reflexively say ‘yes, captain’, but it’s a near thing. “Thank you.”

When Ana smiles, a dimple appears at one cheek. Then she rises from her chair, and Red escorts her to the door like he thinks she’s going to start laying down explosives if she’s not supervised. A few more words are exchanged as she stands in the doorway, but Edge is running purely on automatic at this point and couldn’t recall exactly what he said if someone put a gun to his head. He has his hands full just being coherent. He must not do too badly, because she leaves.

As soon as the door closes behind Ana, his resolve crumbles. There’s no one to hide his pain from; he sinks into the sofa, squeezing his eyes shut against the agony in his spine and arm. To his shame, he can feel tears threatening.

He has to get his pills. The pain won’t stop until he does. But the thought of moving a fraction of an inch more than he already has is exhausting. He just needs a moment to get his bearings.

With his eyes closed and his mind desperate for anything else to focus on besides the pain, Edge hears with crystal clarity the familiar sound of his brother’s boots tromping across the floor in the direction of the kitchen. A few seconds later, there’s the sound of running water. Then it cuts off and he listens as Red comes back to the couch.

And then, wonderfully, he hears the rattle of pills. Without opening his eyes, he reaches out, and Red presses a pill into his hand. Once it’s in Edge’s mouth, Red gives him a glass of cool water to take it with. The pill offers immediate and swift relief; the pain is there, but it’s blessedly dulled to something almost tolerable. Edge’s breath shudders out in a sigh.

There comes a hesitant touch to his good shoulder, just the slightest weight of Red’s hand, like Red’s not sure of his welcome. When Edge doesn’t flinch, Red leaves his hand there.

“You good?” Red asks, his voice gruff. 

“I’m fine,” Edge lies. He’s afraid to open his eyes, afraid Red will yank away. “I knew it’d be unpleasant.”

“Yeah, it looked like it,” Red says. Unfortunately, he takes his hand away. Before Edge can mourn the loss, the other seat on the couch dips beneath Red’s weight. The difference is very slight, as if Red is being painstakingly careful not to accidentally jostle him. “Burns are a real bitch.”

“I’m aware,” Edge says dryly.

Red snorts. “Yeah, I guess you are, huh? Gonna hafta start carrying a fire extinguisher at this rate.”

“Hm,” Edge says. “I certainly would’ve enjoyed watching you bash Gaster in the teeth with it.”

That earns him another amused snort. Even with his eyes closed, Edge feels his brother relax a little, a subtle shift as Red leans his weight more fully against the couch cushion. He isn’t expecting the companionable silence that falls, or the way Red touches his knee like Edge is made out of porcelain.

“I’m fine,” Edge says again, as if sheer repetition will get it through Red’s thick skull. 

“You almost died,” Red says. 

There’s a raw note in his voice, like an open wound. Edge stops himself just shy of opening his eyes. He’s not sure this moment of unexpected honesty will hold if he makes eye contact. 

Edge has nearly died before, many times; they both have. Red never let him see how badly it shook him, not until Edge and Sans came straggling back from their home universe and Red told him that he’d been afraid. 

But then again, hadn’t Red told him, even if it wasn’t in words other people would understand? Every time Edge woke up from a potentially fatal injury with Red’s jacket draped over him, or with painkillers and a glass of water left with deliberate casualness within his reach, it was a goddamn poem telling Edge that Red cares. Even if he somehow missed Red’s meaning, there was no way to misinterpret the morning Edge woke on a too-expensive cot in a healer’s den, deep bruises under Red’s sockets to match the fresh one around his wrist in the shape of the healer’s filthy hand.

(Or the memory, hazed as it is by drugs and pain, of his brother singing to him like he was a sleepless child again.)

“Paps,” Red says into his silence. Edge goes still inside, reacting to that word and the barely-concealed emotion of it like a deer who heard an unexpected gunshot. “You, uh. You know I…”

Red trails off. His fingertip taps on Edge’s knee, a restless tattoo. He seems to be trying to work up his nerve. Edge waits. The agony has faded to a dull throb in time with his pulse, more heat than pain.

Finally, Red says with a trace of desperation, “You _know_ , right?”

Well, that’s vague as fuck. But there are few enough things that his brash asshole of a brother hesitates to voice, for better or worse, that Edge thinks he understands what Red means. He remembers the two agonizing weeks he spent in that Lab, waiting for Red to die. He remembers poring over his memories, weighing their bitter arguments against those rare moments of affection, trying to figure out if Red knew Edge loved him.

As badly as it scarred them both, as much as Edge came to resent it, Red was a child himself when he chose to push Edge away. A desperate child, trying his best to keep them alive since he’d failed at his naive promise to keep the blood off Edge’s hands. Once Red made that choice to hold Edge at a distance, he couldn’t let go of it, or he’d risk admitting that it was all for nothing. They’re both grown now, alive and together, and yet Red is as unable to forgive himself for that choice as Sans is to forgive himself for taking Gaster’s offer.

They came so close to losing each other. Close enough, apparently, to overcome Red’s visceral terror of telling Edge he loves him. Not in the sweet language of holding hands in the cinema or gentle kisses on the top of his skull, but in blood and dust and tears.

Even now, Red can’t say the words. He would flinch if Edge said them back to him. But he’s trying. Was it only a few months ago that Red accidentally calling Edge a pet name led him to have a violent breakdown? It seems like yesterday. It seems like a lifetime.

“Idiot,” Edge says. “Of course I know.”

Red’s breath huffs out like he just got punched in the sternum. Slowly, he draws it back in. It trembles, but his voice is steady when he says, “Okay.”

This moment of unexpected sweetness is more than Edge would’ve ever expected. He should take it and be satisfied. But try as he might, he can’t fight the urge to ask, “Do _you_ know?”

With something dangerously close to fondness, Red says, “Don’t ask stupid questions, boss.”

Warmth blooms around Edge’s soul, so bright it’s almost painful. He bites back an idiot grin and says, “Asshole.”

"Prick," Red says. He gives Edge’s knee a brisk pat and climbs to his feet, grunting as his bruises twinge. "You want I should call Sansy, or you need another minute?"

Edge opens his eyes. Red is standing with his back to him, phone already in hand. The light spilling through the cracks in their living room curtains outlines him in gold. The surge of love Edge feels for him has nothing to do with the painkillers, although he wouldn’t hesitate to use that as an excuse if Red turned and discovered Edge staring at him like this.

“There’s one more thing you could do for me,” Edge says.

Red looks at him over his shoulder. It’s a complicated expression, suspicion warring with his desperate hunger to make this better somehow. “What’s that?”

“We still have healing salve in the bathroom cabinet,” Edge says. A thought that didn’t occur to him until just now, to his great shame. He’s not at his best. “Bring it here so I can deal with those bruises of yours. I’m tired of watching you wince.”

Red scoffs. “What, seriously? Worry about yourself for once, dipshit, I’m fine.”

“Not just you,” Edge says. “It would do wonders for Sans’s ribs.”

As expected, Red’s resolve wobbles dangerously. He glares at Edge, who stares serenely back. Then, with an explosive curse, he pulls out his phone, sends a text (presumably to Sans), and tells Edge, “Fine, I’ll get you the fucking salve. You can lube me up all you want. Happy now, jackass?”

Despite everything, Edge finds to his surprise that he can say with complete honesty, “Yes.” Being able to help anyone else instead of just sitting uselessly on the couch will do wonders for his mood. To keep things from becoming dangerously sentimental, he adds with sadistic sweetness, “Thank you, brother.”

Red rolls his eyes hard enough to sprain something. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck off.”

But he doesn’t leave Edge’s side until Sans comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: aftermath of a spinal injury / burn, including a vague description of them being bandaged and unbandaged; use of pain medication; Red offering to murder Ana for Edge if he asks; Edge struggling with being temporarily disabled and in pain; Edge and Red's dysfunctional relationship; flashback to Red Falling.
> 
> If you want to avoid the description of medical treatment, skip everything between _“I’m ready,” Edge says._ and the paragraph that starts with _Pain makes time slippery._
> 
> This chapter has a couple references to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227427/chapters/54258496) sidestory, where Red had to got Edge medical care by having sex with the healer, so if you're confused by the references to Gil or to Edge waking up on a cot in a healer's den, the details are there.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: injury recovery, use of prescription pain medication


End file.
